#and i love all these things with both of them

[muniimyg]

BED CHEM // JJK

♡ extra: manifest that you're oversized

series m.list // taglist unavailable

warnings: smol argument (slight angst), jk and oc ignore each other for a few days,,, smut ! somewhat virgin au... jk guides oc and oc is unsure but curious the entire time !!! very domestic of them :') ,,, jk eats her out, jk lives out a fantasy and face fucks oc, oc tries cowgirl for the first time & jk takes over in the end lol. raw sex, both of them orgasm & get all mushy in the end <3

note: oh my gawd this smut took me so long to write . tmi one of the side effects of my meds is a lower sex drive so i haven't been in the headspace for this ,, i'm so happy i got around to it. obviously it's not perfect or even close to what i envisioned for them ,, but i also think that's what makes them so hehe haha .

enj !

//

tuesdays are never good. 

jungkook decided this a long time ago. tuesdays are always the busiest—the most inconvenient and the longest. worst of all, with all of tuesday’s chaos—it means no you. 

that’s what jungkook hates the most. 

days without you. 

but today is an anomaly.

a breath above water.

a break.

his lab professor extended their assignment deadline. his afternoon class got canceled. shit, jungkook even hit a new personal record at the gym. 

not to mention that the weather isn’t miserable. for once, april isn’t pouring rain. instead, the sky is blue and the sunshines almost as brightly as you. currently, he’s on his way to surprise you with a matcha latte from your favorite cafe. which, was difficult for him to do. 

“one iced matcha with oat milk and less ice please.” 

god, it sounded so insufferable coming from his mouth… but it’s whatever. he’d do anything for you. you two have been together for almost one year and he’s utterly in love with you… he just hasn’t said it yet. 

you talked about it every now and then… how your favourite moments with him are the ones where he initiates seeing you. ever since you verbalized that, he’s been keeping a list of random things he could do in his notes app. though it’s a small act, getting you a surprise matcha is on the top of his list. 

your class should be ending right about now.

he timed his matcha gesture perfectly. 

and it is, because just as he rounds the corner, he sees you walking out of the building. surrounded by a group of people. jungkook snickers under his breath. of course. you’d never just walk out alone like a normal person. you always have an entire entourage.

as everyone disperses, he reaches for his phone.

nerd [11:45AM]: so popular nerd [11:45AM]: u have time for ur bf or what ? yn [11:47AM]: it’s tuesday :(  yn [11:48AM]: tuesday takes my handsome man away </3  nerd [11:48AM]: not today. i fought a few dragons, sailed across the 7 seas and crawled my way to u n shit  yn [11:49AM]: HAHAHAA yn [11:49AM]: wtf are u on  yn [11:49AM]: i’ll call u tn. focus on ur day. miss u :p  nerd [11:48AM]: turn around dummy  seen

he watches as you put your phone away and stretch your neck, scanning the area for him.

jungkook’s chest swells. but before your eyes land on him, someone else beats him to you. some guy—who jungkook assumes is a classmate—runs up from behind, surprising you.

you let out a playful scream, throwing your arms up as the guy engulfs you in a hug. and then—fucking then—he lifts you off the ground and twirls you around.

right then and there, jungkook feels his blood pressure skyrocket. irritation creeps up his spine, jealousy curling in his chest like a tightening fist. the guy sets you down, and you scan the area again. this time, your eyes find his. you brighten, beaming at him, and then—you point. 

to him. 

to jungkook. 

your boyfriend. 

and the guy follows your gaze, lifting a hand in acknowledgment. jungkook barely raises a hand back. 

half-assed. 

dismissive. 

unimpressed.

then, as if his patience wasn’t already paper-thin, the guy pulls you in for another hug before saying goodbye. jungkook rolls his eyes as you do this. just as he shifts his feet to close the distance, you’re already halfway to him.

you tilt your head, pouting. 

“hi baby—oh my god. is that for me?”

his gaze flickers to the iced matcha latte in his hand. 

then back to you.

before he can answer, you’re already leaning in, wrapping your lips around the straw and taking a long sip—right from the drink he’s still holding. he watches as your throat bobs, as you hum in satisfaction, as your fingers brush against his wrist.

without a word, he reaches over, slipping the tote bag off your shoulder and swinging it over his own. it’s muscle memory at this point. second nature, the way he carries your things like they’re his.

you tiptoe, pressing a kiss to his cheek. he turns at the last second, catching your lips instead. you giggle, and like always, your fingers intertwine with his, your free hand still gripping the matcha latte. 

suddenly and then all at once, jungkook can’t help but notice how pretty you are. 

just like that, his mood begins to fade. 

“how was class?”

“boring.” you frown. “i hate elective classes. they’re so extra for no reason. aren’t they supposed to be gpa boosters? what the heck are they doing assigning me exams and group projects? it’s painful.”

“it may be painful, but that doesn’t give you the excuse to be attempting to sext me during class.”

you glare at him. 

“it’s really annoying that you’re a nerd and actually care about my learning.”

“right,” he huffs. “i’m a shitty boyfriend.”

“you are,” you agree easily.

silence follows. 

but it’s not uncomfortable.

after a beat, you exhale. “oh, the guy earlier—he’s my first friend from first year. he just transferred, and his transcript has been all over the place. but he just found out his credits got accepted, so he doesn’t have to retake a class. fuck, i’ve been stressing for him all week.”

jungkook glances at you, voice softer now. “you shouldn’t stress over things that aren’t yours to stress about.”

“but he’s my friend. am i not allowed to care—”

“that’s not what i meant,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “you know that.”

you hold his gaze, the fight dying in your throat. you let it go.

“also…” you hesitate. “he invited me to his party on saturday. it’s a costume party.”

jungkook scoffs, rolling his eyes. “who throws a costume party in the middle of april?”

“the entire class is going.”

“okay,” jungkook says with a plain tone. “so what?”

“what do you mean so what?” you huff, stopping in your tracks to face him. “what’s with your mood?”

jungkook clenches his jaw. he doesn’t know. today was good—until he saw that guy hug you. “i don’t know,” he exhales. “sorry, baby. i didn’t mean to—”

“forgiven.”

he blinks. “that easy?”

“yes, because you’re coming to the party and you’re dressing up.”

he scoffs. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are.”

“i don’t do costumes.”

“well, you do now.”

he exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “babe—”

“don’t babe me.”

“i have a meeting with the dean about the marine conservation club and our potential donners. i’m not going to that stupid party and i was hoping you’d accompany me to my thing.”

you pause. 

“you decided that for me?” you ask. 

jungkook sighs. “i never said that. i said i was hoping you’d accompany me.”

“but you can decide right off the bat that you aren’t going to my thing because it’s not your crowd and it’s not important to you.” 

he stares at you. 

you glare at him. “newsflash, jungkook… i don’t give a shit about dolphins, but i do care about you. but there’s no way i’m going to your meeting with the dean to be your arm candy if you’re acting like this over a harmless costume party—” 

“that’s hosted by some guy who clearly wants to fuck you.”

his words come out faster than his thoughts to filter them. he knows how you’re going to react. he knows he’s digging himself a grave right now… but a part of him doesn’t care. he’s upset. he should have the right to express his feelings and the reality of the situation. 

your mouth falls open. 

“what?”

he huffs a humorless laugh. “come on, baby… you really don’t see it?”

“see what?” you furrow your brows. 

“he’s into you.”

you stare at him, brows furrowing. “jungkook, he’s my friend.”

“yeah? and how many of your ‘friends’ have tried to get with you? be honest with me… he at least had a thing for you, didn’t he?”

anger rises in your chest. “that’s not fair.”

“what isn’t fair? the truth?”

you gawk at him. “so what, you don’t trust me?”

“of course i trust you.” jungkook exhales sharply, looking away. he’s beyond frustrated at this point… and so are you. “i just don’t trust him.”

“holy shit, jungkook.” you shake your head, throwing your hands up. “it’s just a party. you’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

he doesn’t respond, jaw set, eyes fixed on the pavement.

“it’s stupid,” he breathes. “i’m not going. i don’t want you to go either, if i’m being completely honest.”

your face drops. 

you don’t mind the honesty… you hate the audacity. 

“you know what?” you walk forward and turn to him. with a final defeated breath, you tell him; “text me when you pick me over your stupid dolphins.”

then, just like that, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him standing there, fists clenched at his sides. jungkook watches as you shove the matcha latte into the nearest trash bin and storm off towards the direction of your home. 

his feet feel glued to the ground for some reason. 

the rational thing to do is run after you, apologize, and make up with you… but instead, he sulks. jungkook turns the other direction, choosing to be a complete idiot.

you don’t text him that night. 

you don’t call him the next morning, either.

jungkook doesn’t reach out, but you catch him viewing your stories, and liking your tiktok reposts. 

he lingers closely when you hang out with the guys throughout the week. like maybe he’ll say something. like maybe he’ll tap your shoulder and ask if you still want him to come. but he doesn’t.

you bump into him around campus once. 

you pass each other—his eyes flick to yours, but you look past him. not out of malice. you just don’t have the energy for his half-hearted apologies or defensive silences. you don’t want him to say sorry because you asked him to. you want him to say sorry because he means it. 

when thursday passes with no message, you wonder if he’s really not coming.

you wonder if he’ll just let this linger, like it doesn’t matter.

you go shopping with your friends on friday. pick out a costume that’s just silly enough to make you feel like yourself. 

then it’s saturday.

and you still haven’t heard from him.

the party is lame. 

you hate to admit it, but maybe jungkook was right. costumes in the middle of spring? it just doesn’t feel right. regardless, you're laughing at a story you’re only half-listening to.

you’re having fun. 

you swear.

you’ve been having fun for the past two hours. smiling, mingling, keeping the energy light… but your phone’s screen is a little too smudged from checking it every ten minutes.

no texts.

you open instagram. he watched your story.

you close it again.

you’re mid-sip when someone bumps your side—not too hard, just enough to jostle the drink. you turn instinctively, lips parting to apologize, when you see him.

jungkook.

in his marine conservation blazer, white shirt crisp under the low light. tie loosened, hair pushed back like he’s been running his hand through it all night.

and on his head?

tiger ears.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just stands there beside you like he’s been there the whole time. then he glances down at you, voice low and casual.

“you waiting for your shitty boyfriend to text you?”

you blink at him.

“you’re a tiger.”

he nods. “roar.”

you snort. “do they even roar?”

he rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. then he shifts, turning to face you properly. his hands find your waist without question, like that’s still his place. like you’re still his.

his voice softens. 

“they roar. and they say sorry.”

you look at him.

"sorry," he adds. his brows are furrow just a little, like he means it. like he’s been thinking about it all night. like the headband was his way of saying i miss you in the dumbest way possible.

you reach up, adjust one of the ears so it’s standing upright again.

“well... you look stupid.”

“you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

he presses his forehead to yours, sighs quietly. you glance at the headband again, then back at him. he’s fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt, refusing to meet your eyes. for once, jungkook looks nervous. 

you soften.

“you didn’t have to come. we would've worked it out regardless.”

“i know,” he says quietly. “and i would’ve been here faster but the dolphins…”

“those damn dolphins,” you laugh. 

he joins you. 

then, a beat.

then he lifts his gaze, eyes meeting yours for the first time in days.

“i wanted to come,” he confesses. “i want to be wherever you are.”

and just like that, the fight breaks into dust.

you step closer, close enough to touch. your hand brushes his. he doesn’t move, but his pinky curls around yours like muscle memory.

you don’t talk about the argument. you don’t ask if he’s sorry. you don’t need to.

you lean in, voice lower now.

“one dance. and then we go.”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “just one?”

“two.”

“three.”

the door clicks shut behind you.

you kick your shoes off with more force than necessary and drop your bag somewhere near the wall. jungkook follows behind, slower, undoing the top button of his shirt as he steps inside.

the silence isn’t uncomfortable. just thick. waiting to be cut. so here you two are—ripping the bandaid off.

you turn to face him.

“you were a dick.”

he nods. “i know.”

“and jealous. for no reason.”

another nod. “i know that, too.”

you cross your arms. “so?”

“so…” he sighs, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt like he needs something to fidget with. “i got in my head. and then i got mad about being in my head. and then i made it your problem. i'm sorry i said all that. but also, i don't think i'm wrong to feel intimidated by him. he's someone from your past.”

you watch him. you don’t say anything.

he finally meets your gaze.

“i trust you,” he says, voice quieter now. “i do. i just… get scared sometimes. that someone else will be better. smarter. funnier. more patient with me when i’m acting like a five-year-old.”

you blink at him. “you’re not five.”

he snorts under his breath.

“you’re like… seven. max.”

he huffs a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.

“i should have considered why it could have made you feel uncomfortable. shit, you gave up tutoring just because for me... although you could have said it in a nicer way, i understand where you were coming from... and not to mention... you’re the smartest person i know,” you say with no hesitation. “i’ve never met a bigger nerd than you. i wouldn't worry about me dumping you for an even bigger nerd. don't think i could handle more nerdology behaviour.”

jungkook cracks a smile.

still, he huffs in frustration and tsks. “i… i just didn’t want to lose you over something dumb. i hate messing things up with you,” he murmurs.

you step toward him, hands slipping under his blazer, palms resting against his chest. 

“you aren't messing anything up.”

his hand covers yours. his eyes flick between yours.

“i'm really trying, ___. i swear.”

you nod, smiling sweetly at him. “you did good tonight.”

“the ears?”

“the ears.” you smile. “very charming.”

he leans in slightly, voice lower. “wanna pet me?”

“maybe later.”

jungkook rolls his eyes before dipping his head low. he kisses you for the first time in so long and literally feels his heartache dissolve. you reach over his neck and kiss him with more passion. then, when you pull away, you murmur; “i’m sorry i wasn’t very patient. can you and the dolphins ever forgive me?”

“forgiven.”

kiss. 

“that easy?”

kiss. 

“you’re too pretty to stay mad at.”

jungkook is laid back against his pillows, hands planted lightly on your thighs like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to grip you tighter yet.

you’re straddling his lap, your fingers curled into the open collar of his shirt, your lips pressed to his like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him again. like you need him to know: i missed you.

his mouth moves under yours—eager, but letting you set the rhythm.

you pull back just a little, your breath shallow. “we were really mad at each other. didn’t even text.”

his eyes open slowly. “yeah,” he murmurs. “i hated it.”

you lean down, kissing the corner of his mouth. “me too.”

before he knows it, your fingers make their way to the buttons of his shirt. you begin to unbutton them, one by one. his breath shakes. this is only the third time you two have ever had sex… the first time you’ve ever initiated it, too. the first few times you two have had sex, it’s always been a little slow and soft. he’s always been sure to make it as easy as possible for you because, in your words, it feels weird. 

you like it, of course. 

it’s just different. losing your virginity recently to him is a completely new experience. in all honesty, he’s done everything right so far. jungkook is always so gentle and caring. but something about the way you look at him right now tells him that maybe… tonight that isn’t what you want. maybe, you don’t want gentle. 

you want him… 

hard. messy. hot. 

“can you take this off?”

jungkook freezes. 

then, his hand slides up your waist, thumb brushing under your shirt. “you’re sure? we don’t have to.”

he wants you to be sure. he wants you to know that sex is always in your control and that you get to have it your way. to finish your way… to start? this is new. it makes him nervous too… but excited more than ever. 

your reply is barely a whisper. 

“kiss me again.”

and so he does. 

slower this time. 

deeper. 

one hand cups the back of your head, the other squeezing your hip like he’s finally letting himself touch you the way he wants to. the kiss grows hotter, messier—your teeth graze his lip, and he exhales a shaky breath through his nose like he’s barely holding it together.

“fuck,” he whispers. “missed you so much.”

you smile against his mouth. “good.”

jungkook is buried between your legs. 

he kisses your thighs slowly, slightly lifting his head up for air. then, he reaches over to your hips and palms them, pressing some pressure. without warning, he dips his head low and begins to eat you out again. 

his tongue flickers back and forth, fast and messy. he digs his nose in as he sucks your clit and pulls away. he takes his time, flattening his tongue against your clit. your toes curl, your head throws back, and your stomach tightens as the feeling. 

“d-don’t laugh at m-me, okay?” you stutter.

he lifts his head. 

“what’s wrong?”

“i… i t-think i might pee,” you pant. “i don’t wanna pee.”

jungkook chuckles, not mocking, just warmly. 

“you’re not gonna. promise.”

your eyebrows furrow. “but what if i do? that’s so gross.”

“do you want me to stop?”

you nod. 

“sorry.”

jungkook shakes his head and reaches over to kiss your forehead. “don’t apologize. let’s do what you want and what makes you feel good, okay?”

you swallow. 

“w-what do you wanna do?” you ask him shyly. jungkook breathes you in, resting hs body on top of yours. like second nature, you wrap your arms around him and hold him close. he trails kisses on your neck as you murmur; “i wanna do something for you too.” 

he smiles against your skin. 

“we don’t have to do anything,” he tells you honestly. “we can just go to sleep—”

“do you wanna fuck my face?”

his breath hitches. 

“uhm…” jungkook shifts and chases your eyes. you stare into his eyes and smile warmly. “w-what?”

you shrug. 

“i wanna try it,” you confess. “and you mentioned it once jokingly… why not, right?” 

he blinks at you. 

before he can register this, you shift and slide lower down the bed. he lifts his body, following your lead and positioning himself. jungkook kneels over you, straddling your chest. his knees are on either side of your body with one hand on the headboard for balance… the other cradles your cheek, thumb swiping your puffy lips. 

“if it’s too much—”

“i wanna take it,” you pout. “manifested for you to be oversized. this is me facing my consequence.” 

that’s all it takes 

as jungkook tilts his head with a playful smirk, he shoves his heavy cock inside your pretty mouth. he shifts his hips forward slowly, sinking himself deeper inside your mouth. 

“too deep?” he asks, fingers brushing your hair back. 

you shake your head, eyes watery but committed. 

shakily, he lets out a deep and wrecked groan. he drags his cock out, bringing the tip to your lips to play with. you swirl your tongue around it, playing with his slit. he inhales sharply before you part your lips for him to thrust himself back in again. jungkook then slides his hand to cup the back of your head, lifting you just a bit for a better angle. the slight move causes you to gag around him. 

his stomach sinks. 

he pauses instantly. 

“you okay?”

you blink twice at him and begin to suck him off. jungkook throws his head back, moving in slow and shallow thrusts. he tests the waters, as the headboard begins to creak. 

“god,” he moans. “look at you, baby… taking me so well. i’m so fucking proud of you.”

then, his pace gets a little rougher. his hips roll forward with more intent, but his hand stays gentle on your head. he doesn’t force you to take more. when you moan around him, your nails begin to dig into his thighs. 

“shit—baby,” jungkook begins to lose his breath. “say something… gonna cum just like this.”

you pull off for air. 

“you can… if you want.”

jungkook hisses. “you can’t say shit like that.”

then, he leans over you, bracing both hands against the headboard now. he cages you in. his abs flex with each thrust, and the view of him above you—eyes wide, flushed chest heaving—is seared into your memory forever.

god, he’s so handsome. 

you keep your hands on his thighs, letting him set the pace. he watches you the entire time, making sure you’re doing okay. it backfires, though because all he can notice is how your mouth stretches around him. how your eyebrows furrow and how your eyes flutter shut like you enjoy this.

spoiler: you do enjoy this. 

then, he feels his body tighten. 

he knows the feeling all too well. 

without warning, he pulls himself out and with a groan—drops down to kiss you. 

“gonna stop,” he pants. “gotta be inside you when i finish.”

you let out a laugh against his lips. “okay,” you agree. “want you to finish inside me too.” 

with that, you feel your legs tremble when he pulls you upright. he kisses you slow and settles back against the pillows. his cock is angry, twitching between his thighs. jungkook pulls you into his lap. 

you hesitate a little, as you swing a leg over. your knees rest on either sides of him. his eyes flicker to the way your hands hover above his chest. you look unsure… but also desperate. he can’t fight with that. 

“what do you wanna do?” he asks gently, fingers tracing your thighs. 

“wanna ride you,” you say shyly. “like cowgirl… b-but—”

“you don’t know how?”

“i’m gonna look stupid.”

he rolls his eyes at you. “not possible.”

jungkook leans in, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “take your time with it. you’re in control. i’ll help you figure it out, okay? do what you want. i’m all yours, baby.”

with that, he lies back as you grab the base of his cock rather awkwardly. you lower yourself down slowly. sinking inch by inch, you gasp. 

“sorry—”

“don’t apologize,” he reassures you, as he reaches over and helps you line himself up. “here, like this.”

jungkook holds himself still while you slowly sink down. your hands are planted on his chest, steadying yourself. he groans as he feels your tight pussy clench. his hands grip your hips tightly. you let out a shaky breath in response. 

you both pause when once you realize you’ve taken him in fully. 

you catch your breath as his hands soothe up and down your sides. 

“f-fuck.”

“you okay?”

“yeah,” you nod, taking a deep breath in. “just… big.”

jungkook chuckles, leaning in for a kiss. “your fault.”

you let out a small laugh as he rubs circles on your hips. you adjust, locking eyes with his. 

“should i move now?”

he blinks at you. “yeah. try rocking your hips. you don’t have to bounce or anything—just move how you feel.”

you nod and try it.

it’s awkward at first, but his hands guide you. soon enough, you’re rolling your hips against his. the slow grind of your bodies both make you moan. you feel his cock harden inside you, and the sharpness is something you never expected to love so much. it feels so good. jungkook’s head lolls forward, kissing your breasts and then your neck. 

he’s breathless. 

“that’s it,” he praises. “good girl… you’re so perfect, baby.”

you lean in to kiss him. then, you pick up your pace. you roll your hips forward, grinding and humping him however your body wants to. he’s biting his bottom lip as your movements quicken and you begin to feel tingling in the pit of your stomach. you chase the feeling by riding him harder. soon, you begin to let out breathey moans. 

“ohh,” you almost cry. “f-fuck. oh my god…” 

“that’s it,” jungkook moans. “shit. just like that.”

you fuck him harder. 

jungkook slaps your ass and you let out a whimper. as you two fuck, you begin to feel the pressure of it all weigh in on you. for some reason, as you look at him, you can’t help but pant and want more of this insane feeling. 

“look at you,” he hisses. “you’re doing it, baby. fuck. you’re riding me.”

before you know it, you’re whimpering. 

your grinding gets lazier but the high is still there. you’re out of breath, sweaty and tired. you’re still moving in his lap, but your thighs are burning. he looks up at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

(he hasn’t)

“you okay?”

you give him a small breathless nod. even before you tell him with words, jungkook pulls himself out and reaches over to you. he checks in you. 

“everything okay?”

again, you nod but your rhythm falters. your legs shake a little as you try to lift yourself and sink again. you whimper, frusterated at yourself. 

“sorry—”

“hey,” jungkook murmurs, quickly sitting up. he kisses your forehead. “you’re doing so good. nothing to be sorry about.”

“i think my legs are giving out,” you murmur, nuzzling into the side of his neck. “but don’t wanna stop.”

he chuckles, running his hands up and down your back. jungkook kisses your jaw. “lay back for me?”

before you can even answer, he shifts—scooping an arm under your knees and the other behind your back, rolling the both of you with practiced ease until you’re lying against his chest, back to his front.

“this okay?” he asks, lips brushing your ear. 

you nod quickly, already breathless as he hooks your thighs over his, keeping you wide open while he stays deep inside you. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you in tighter, grounding you completely.

he starts to thrust again—slow, deep rolls of his hips that push into you from underneath, the angle making you whimper. your head tilts back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you melt into him, letting him do the work.

jungkook fucks you like this for a while. you focus on your breathing and the feeling of him inside you. all your thoughts and efforts crumble when he places his hand over your pussy and begins to play with your clit. 

“j-jungkook… i can’t—”

“you can.”

“i’m gonna—nghhh…. oh my g-god. jungkook!” 

your body starts to tremble, back pressed flush against his chest, every nerve ending alive as he keeps grinding into you from beneath.

his arms stay locked around your waist, one hand splayed over your stomach, holding you still while the other toys with your clit—soft, steady strokes that match the rhythm of his hips.

“fuck—” you gasp. “jungkook—i think—i’m gonna—”

“i know, baby,” he whispers, his voice shaky but so sweet. “you’re close, yeah? it’s okay.”

his mouth is right at your ear, so gentle despite how deep he is inside you.

“breathe through it,” he hisses. “i feel your pussy tightening. you’re gonan cum soon and your instict is to hold your breath—don’t. i want you to breathe through it. want you to feel it all, okay? can you be a good girl and do that for me, baby?” 

you whimper. 

“uh... mhmmm... shit, shit, shit! nghh… i… i’ll try.”

jungkook fucks himself inside you deeper and harder. you hold your breath as you take him in, and then shut your eyes to exhale. 

you breathe through your nose, trying to focus on his request. 

and when you do—your body curling forward, a desperate whimper falling from your lips—he wraps you tighter in his arms, guiding you through it with slow, grounding thrusts, his hand not leaving your clit until you're twitching and whining from the overstimulation.

you cream his cock. 

“you’re so perfect,” he breathes, kissing the side of your neck. “you did so good for me. so fucking good.”

you’re still catching your breath when he carefully lifts you off, laying you back down on the pillows.

“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair from your face.

you nod, dazed, your skin flushed and glowing. he kisses your forehead.

“gonna finish, yeah?” he whispers. “just wanna be close.”

and then he’s sliding back in—slow and deep—his body over yours, elbows tucked beside your head as he holds himself up just enough to look at you.

“feels so good,” he moans, dropping a kiss to your cheek. “so warm.”

your hands trail up his back, pulling him in. his movements are less frantic now, more like he’s savoring it—each roll of his hips drawn out, every kiss messy and sweet.

“look at me,” he whispers, foreheads touching. “wanna see you when i cum.”

and when he does—hips stuttering, a low groan leaving his throat—you kiss him through it, soft and open-mouthed, your fingers carding through his hair as he falls apart right there, with you.

his whole body trembles, but he doesn’t move—doesn’t leave. just stays wrapped around you, breathing hard, kissing your lips again and again like he doesn’t want to let you go.

just like that, jungkook cums inside you—filling your pussy up with every ounce of himself. 

you’re draped over him like a blanket, one leg tossed over his hips, face tucked into the crook of his neck. the room is quiet, save for the low hum of the fan and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing as it evens out.

jungkook's fingers trace lazy shapes along your thigh, slow and thoughtless, like he’s just making sure you’re still there. still his. still real.

beside you, hello kitty stares from the edge of the bed. a little crooked. still wearing the ribbon he tied on her hours ago.

“you think she judged us?” you mumble against his collarbone.

his chest shakes with a quiet laugh.

“she was appalled. horrified, even.”

you snort.

“poor girl didn’t sign up for that.”

“we should apologize.” he suggests. “sorry, kitty.”

you giggle agaisnt his chest. then, you lift your face and say; “next time… i think the tiger ears should stay on.”

he stills, then looks down at you slowly—like you just said something criminal.

“what’s with you and props? if it’s not my glasses, it’s the tiger ears. what’s next? blindfolds and whips?”

“i’m dead serious.”

“oh, i know. that’s the scary part.”

you both dissolve into soft laughter, his fingers still moving along your bare skin. at some point, he tugs hello kitty into the covers, nestling her between your bodies like a little buffer. a witness, maybe. or a silent secret keeper.

your eyes flutter closed soon after. sleep is winning.

but jungkook stays awake a little longer. watches you. breathes you in.

and once he’s sure—sure your breathing is slow and even, sure you won’t catch him in the act—he leans down, presses a kiss to the crown of your head, and whispers against your skin like it’s sacred.

“___?” jungkook whispers, voice low and careful, like he’s scared of waking you.

he shifts a little, just enough to see your face in the soft lamplight. your lashes are fanned out across your cheeks, your lips slightly parted, breath slow and steady.

you don’t answer.

he watches you in silence. listens to the hush of the room and the tiny creak of the mattress as he adjusts his arm under your waist. your leg is still hooked over his hip, and your fingers rest gently on his chest—right over the spot where his heart is beating just a little too fast.

maybe you’re asleep. maybe you’re not.

but he takes the chance anyway.

he turns his head, nose brushing the side of yours. and with a kiss so soft it almost doesn’t land, he presses his mouth to your hairline.

“i’m so in love with you,” he breathes. not even a whisper—more like a confession carried on his last exhale. “i love you.”

you don’t move. don’t speak. don’t flinch or blink.

but your fingers twitch. just slightly.

and then they curl in, sinking into the fabric of his shirt. slow and gentle, like your body coudn’t help but respond before your mind caught up. like your heart heard him first.

jungkook’s eyes flutter close.

he doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t push or ask or even hope. he just sinks a little deeper into the sheets, into you, pulling you closer like maybe, if he holds you tight enough, the moment won’t break.

and you—still quiet, still pretending—feel everything.

the weight of his arm around you.

the warmth of his skin against yours. the truth of what he said lingering in the space between your bodies.

you don’t say it back.

not yet.

but you feel it, too. so, in your head you say it back. drifting to sleep, tangled with the love of your life—

i love you too. 

[velarisdusk]

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about. 

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you. 

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath  artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin. 

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.  

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort. 

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You. 

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor. 

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away. 

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs. 

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her. 

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night. 

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream. 

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd. 

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night. 

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised. 

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine. 

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect. 

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed. 

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant. 

You think you catch the ghost of a smile. 

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen. 

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads. 

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you. 

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that. 

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way. 

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face. 

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered. 

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot. 

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it. 

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be. 

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music. 

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you. 

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating. 

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all. 

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure. 

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

He doesn’t have to. 

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit. 

And just like that, you fall into step with him. 

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way. 

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth. 

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy. 

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth. 

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry. 

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass. 

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur. 

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin. 

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go. 

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice. 

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it. 

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before. 

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are. 

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap. 

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended. 

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once. 

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months. 

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not. 

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again. 

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin. 

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are. 

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends. 

Still not in love. 

Definitely not. 

Probably. 

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. 

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move. 

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting—years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going. 

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now. 

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it—because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger. 

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.” 

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress. 

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms. 

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache. 

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. 

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips. 

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last. 

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide. 

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket. 

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

[abbotjack]

Asking Robby to walk you down the aisle after u said yes to Jack hOLD MY HAND SYDDDD 😭😭😭😭

The Handoff 𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

a/n : I fear I took your idea and turned it into a 4k word emotional spiral. I genuinely couldn’t help myself. like… Jack crying in uniform??? Robby soft-dad-coded and holding it together until he can’t??? the handoff?? the dress reveal??

summary : Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

content/warnings: emotional wedding fluff, quiet proposal energy, found family themes, Jack crying in uniform, Robby in full dad-mode, reader with no biological family, soft military references, subtle grief, emotional intimacy, and everyone in the ER being completely unprepared for Jack Abbot to have visible feelings.

word count : 4,149 (... hear me out)

You hadn’t expected Jack to propose.

Not because you didn’t think he wanted to. But because Jack Abbot didn’t really ask for things. He was a man of action. Not words. Never had been.

But with you? He always showed it.

Like brushing your shoulder on the way to a trauma room—not for luck, not for show, just to say I’m here.

It was how he peeled oranges for you. Always handed to you in a napkin, wedges split and cleaned of the white stringy parts—because you once mentioned you hated them. And he remembered.

It was how he left the porch light on when you got held over.

How he’d warm your side of the bed with a heating pad when your back ached.

He’d hook his pinky with yours in the hallway. Leave your favorite hoodie—his—folded on your pillow when he knew he’d miss you by a few hours.

Jack didn’t say “I love you” like other people. He said it like this. In gestures. In patterns. In choosing you, over and over, without fanfare.

No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just peeled oranges. Warm beds. Soft touches.

So when it finally happened—a proposal, of all things—it caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t think he meant it. But because you’d never pictured it. Not from him. Not like this.

The trauma bay was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happens after a win—after the adrenaline fades, the stats even out and the patient lives. You’d both been working the case for nearly forty minutes, side by side, barked orders and that intense, seamless rhythm you’d only ever found with him.

You saved a life tonight. Together.

And now the world outside the curtain was humming soft and far away.

You stood by the sink, scrubbing off the last of the blood—good blood, this time. He was leaning against the supply cabinet, gloves off. Something in his shoulders had dropped. His body loose in that way it never really was unless you were alone.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

You flicked water from your hands. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He hesitated.

Then, casually—as casually as only Jack could manage while asking you something that was about to gut you—

“I’d marry you.”

You froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that he caught the subtle change in your face, the way your mouth parted like you needed more air all of a sudden.

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

It didn’t sound like a performance. It sounded like a truth he’d been sitting on for months. One he only knew how to say in places like this—where the lighting was too bright and your hearts were still racing and nothing else existed but you two still breathing.

Your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant to. “I’d marry you too.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

And then he stepped toward you—not fast, not dramatic, just steady. Like he’d already decided that he was yours. Like this wasn’t new, just something the two of you had known without ever having to say it.

No ring. No big speech. No audience.

Just you. Him. The place where it all made sense.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured.

And you smiled too, because yeah—he didn’t say things often. But when he did?

They wrecked you.

Because he meant them. And he meant this.

You. Forever.

You didn’t tell anyone, not right away.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you didn’t have anyone to tell. Not in the way other people did.

There were no group texts. No parents to call. No siblings waiting on the other end of the line, ready to scream and cry and make it real. You’d built your life from the ground up—and for a long time, that had felt like enough. You’d learned how to move through the world quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to belong to anyone. Without needing to be someone’s daughter.

But then came residency.

And Robby.

He hadn’t swooped in. Hadn’t made it obvious. That wasn’t his style. But the first week of your intern year, when you’d gotten chewed out by a trauma surgeon in the middle of the ER, it was Robby who handed you a water, sat next to you in the stairwell, and said, “He’s an asshole. Don’t let it stick.”

After that, it just… happened. Slowly.

He checked your notes when you looked too tired to think. He drove you home once in a snowstorm and started keeping granola bars in his glovebox—just in case.

He noticed you never talked about home. Never mentioned your parents. Never took time off for holidays.

He never asked. But he was always there.

When you matched into the program full-time, he texted, Knew it.

When you pulled your first solo central line, he left a sticky note on your locker: Took you long enough, show-off.

When a shift gutted you so bad you couldn’t breathe, he sat beside you on the floor of the supply room and didn’t say a word.

You never called him a father figure. You didn’t need to.

He just was.

So when the proposal finally felt real—settled, certain—you knew who you had to tell first.

You found him three days later, camped at his usual spot at the nurse’s station—reading glasses sliding down his nose, his ridiculous “#1 Interrogator” mug tucked in one hand. He didn’t notice you at first. You just stood there, stomach buzzing, watching the way he tapped his pen against the margin like he was trying not to throw the whole file out a window.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to fidget.

He looked up. “You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

“No one died.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your mouth—then paused. Your heart was thudding like you’d just sprinted up from sub-level trauma.

Then, quiet: “Jack proposed.”

A beat.

Another.

Robby blinked. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Three days ago.”

His mouth opened. Then shut again. Then opened.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

You smiled. “End of a code. We’d just saved a guy. He said, ‘I’d marry you. If you wanted.’”

Robby looked down, then laughed quietly. “Of course he did. That’s so him.”

“I said yes.”

“Obviously you did.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure.

“I didn’t know who to tell. But… I wanted you to know first.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his face soft in that way he rarely let it be. Like something behind his ribs had cracked open a little.

Then he let out a breath. Slow. Rough at the edges.

“He told me, you know,” he said. “A few weeks ago. That he was thinking about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Well—‘told me’ is generous,” he muttered. “He cornered me outside the supply closet and said something like, ‘I don’t know if she’d say yes, but I think I need to ask.’ Then grunted and walked away.”

You laughed, head tilting. “That sounds about right.”

“I figured it would happen eventually,” Robby said. “I just didn’t know it already had. This is the first I’m hearing that he actually went through with it.”

He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim. Then back up at you with something warm in his expression that made your throat go tight.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Really.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t really have… anyone,” you said. “Not like that. But you’ve always been—”

He waved a hand, cutting you off before you could get too sentimental. His voice was quiet when he said, “I know.”

You nodded. Tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“You crying on me?” he teased gently.

“No,” you lied.

“Liar.”

He reached up and gave your arm a firm pat—one of those dad-move, no-nonsense gestures—but he kept his hand there for a second, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “The two of you. That’s gonna be something good.”

You smiled at the floor. Then at him.

“Hey, Robby?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth—hesitated. The words were there. Right there on your tongue. But they felt too big, too final for a hallway and a half-empty cup of coffee.

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “Actually… never mind.”

His eyes softened instantly. No push. No questions.

Just, “Alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

And somehow, you knew—he already knew what you were going to ask. And when the time came, he’d say yes without hesitation.

It happened on a Wednesday. Late enough in the evening that most of the ER had emptied out, early enough that the halls still echoed with footsteps and intercom beeps and nurses joking in breakrooms. You’d just finished a back-to-back shift—one of those long, hazy doubles where time folds in on itself. Your ID badge was flipped around on its lanyard. You smelled like sweat, sanitizer, and twelve hours of recycled air.

You found Robby in the stairwell.

Not for any sentimental reason—that’s just where he always went to decompress. A quiet landing. One of the overhead lights had a faint flicker, and he was sitting on the fourth step, half reading something, half just existing. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows.

He looked tired in that familiar, permanent way. But settled. Like someone who wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Hey,” you said, voice low.

He looked up instantly. “You good?”

You nodded. Walked down a few steps until you were standing just above him.

“I need to ask you something.”

He squinted. “You pregnant?”

You snorted. “No.”

“Did Jack do something stupid?”

“Also no.”

He closed the folder in his lap and gave you his full attention.

You hesitated. A long beat. “Okay, so—when I was younger, I used to lie.”

Robby blinked. “That’s where this is going?”

You ignored him.

“I’d make up stories about my family. At school. Whenever there was some essay or form or ‘bring your parents to career day’ crap—I’d just invent someone. A dad who was a firefighter. A mom who was a nurse. A grandma who sent birthday cards.”

Robby didn’t move. Just listened.

“And I got good at it. Lying. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t have anybody. Why there was no one to call if something happened. Why I always stayed late. Why I never talked about holidays.”

You looked down at him now. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t make anything up this time.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Because I have someone now,” you said. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You took a breath that shook a little in your chest.

“And I’m getting married in a few months, and there’s this part I keep thinking about. The aisle. Walking down it. That moment.”

You cleared your throat.

“I don’t want it to be random. Or symbolic. Or just… for show.”

Another breath.

“I want it to be you.”

Robby blinked once.

Then again.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something. Closed. Then opened again.

“You want me to walk you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

You smiled. “You can say no.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He looked up at you, and his voice cracked just slightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

You hadn’t expected to get emotional. Not really. But hearing it out loud—that he’d do it, that he meant it—it undid something small and knotted in your chest.

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me, you know that?” he said.

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

You laughed, throat thick. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m gonna need a suit now, huh?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m going full emotional support tuxedo. I’m showing up with cufflinks. Maybe a cane.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood then—slower than he used to, one hand on the railing—and looked at you with that same warmth he always tried to hide under sarcasm and caffeine.

“You did good, kid.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

The music started before you were ready.

It was quiet at first. Just the soft swell of strings rising behind the door. But your hands were shaking, your throat was tight, and everything felt too big all of a sudden.

Robby looked over, standing next to you in the little alcove just off the chapel doors, tie only mostly straight, boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d pinned it on in the car.

“You’re breathing like you’re about to code out,” he said gently.

You gave him a half-laugh, half-gasp. “I think I might.”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes already burning. “I don’t know—maybe. Yes. I just—Jack’s out there. And everyone’s watching. What if I trip? Or ugly cry? Or completely blank and forget how to walk?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just reached out and took your hand—steady and instinctive—his thumb brushing over your knuckles the way he had that night during your intern year, when you’d locked yourself in the on-call room and couldn’t stop shaking after your first failed intubation. He didn’t say anything then either. Just sat beside you on the floor and held your hand like this—anchoring, patient, there.

“Hey,” Robby said—steady, but quieter now. “You’re walking toward the only guy I’ve ever seen drop everything—without thinking—just because you looked a little off walking out of a shift.”

You blinked, chest already starting to tighten.

“I’ve watched him learn you,” Robby continued. “Slow. Quiet. Like he was memorizing every version of you without making it a thing. The tired version. The pissed-off version. The one who forgets to eat and pretends she’s fine.”

He let out a quiet laugh, still looking right at you.

“I’ve seen Jack do a thoracotomy with one hand and hold pressure with the other. I’ve seen him walk into scenes nobody else wanted, shirt soaked, pulse steady, like he already knew how it would end. He doesn’t rattle. Hell, I watched him take a punch from a drunk in triage and not even blink.”

His hand tightened around yours—just slightly.

“That’s how I know,” he said. “That this is it. Because Jack—the guy who’s walked into burning scenes with blood on his boots and didn’t even flinch—looked scared shitless the second he realized he couldn’t picture his life without you. Not because he didn’t think you’d say yes. But because he knew it meant something. That this wasn’t something he could compartmentalize or walk away from if it got hard. Loving you? That’s the one thing he can't afford to lose.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Less pressure on me to be the first one.”

You gave him a teary smile. “You ready?”

Robby offered his arm. “Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

The doors creaked open.

You sucked in a breath.

And then—

The music swelled.

Not the dramatic kind—no orchestral swell, no overblown strings. Just the soft, deliberate rise of something warm and low and steady. Something that sounded like home.

The crowd stood. Rows of people from different pieces of your life, blurred behind the blur in your eyes. You couldn’t see any one of them clearly—not Dana, not Langdon, not Whitaker fidgeting with his tie—but you felt them. Their hush. Their stillness.

And at the far end of the aisle stood Jack—dressed in his Army blues.

Not a rented tux. Not a tailored suit.

His uniform.

Pressed. Precise. Quietly immaculate.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was him.

He hadn’t worn it to make a statement. He wore it because there were people in the pews who knew him from before—before the ER, before Pittsburgh, before you. Men and women who had bled beside him, saved lives beside him, watched him shoulder more than anyone should—and never once seen him like this.

Undone. Open.

There were people in his family who’d worn that uniform long before him. And people he’d served with who taught him what it meant to wear it well. Not for attention. Not for tradition. But because it meant something. A history. A duty. A vow he never stopped honoring—even long after the war ended.

And when you saw him standing there—dress blues crisp under the soft chapel light, shoulders squared, mouth tight, eyes full—you didn’t see someone dressed for a ceremony.

You saw him.

All of him. The past, the present, the parts that had been broken and rebuilt a dozen times over. The weight he’d never put down. The man he’d become when no one else was watching.

Jack didn’t flinch as the doors opened. He didn’t smile, didn’t wipe his eyes. He just stood there—steady, quiet, letting himself feel it.

Letting you see it.

And somehow, that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

The room stayed still, breath held around you.

Until, from somewhere near the front, Javadi’s whisper sliced through the quiet:

“Is he—oh my God, is Abbot crying?”

Mohan choked on a mint. Someone—maybe Santos—audibly gasped.

And halfway down the aisle—when your breath caught and your knees went just a little loose—Robby spoke, voice low and smug, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Well,” Robby muttered, voice low and smug, “remind me to collect $20 from Myrna next shift.”

You glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes forward, deadpan. “Nothing. Just—turns out you weren’t the only one betting on whether Jack would cry.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“She said he was carved from Army-grade stone and wouldn’t shed a tear if the hospital burned down with him inside. I disagreed.”

You gawked at him.

“She told me—and I quote—‘If Dr. Y/L/N ever changes her mind, tell her to step aside, because I will climb that man like a jungle gym.’”

You almost tripped. “Robby.”

“She’s got her sights set. Calls him ‘sergeant sweetheart’ when the nurses aren’t looking.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, laughing through the tears already welling. And the altar still felt a mile away.

He finally glanced at you, face softening. “I said she didn’t stand a chance.”

You blinked fast.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

You had never felt so chosen. So sure. So completely loved by someone who once thought emotions were best left unsaid.

Robby must have felt the shift in your weight, because he pulled you in slightly closer. His hand—broad and warm—curved around your arm like it had a thousand times before. Steady. Grounding. Father-coded to the core.

“You got this,” he murmured. “Look at him.”

You did.

And Jack was still there—still crying. Not bothering to wipe his eyes. Not hiding it. Like he knew nothing else mattered more than this moment. Than you.

When you finally reached the end of the aisle, Jack stepped forward before the officiant could speak. Like instinct.

Robby didn’t move at first.

He just looked at you—long and hard, eyes bright.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

His hand lingered at the small of your back.

And his voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. “You good?”

You nodded, too full to speak.

He nodded back. “Alright.”

And then—quietly, like it was something he wasn’t ready to do but always meant to—he took your hand, and placed it gently into Jack’s.

Jack didn’t look away from you. His hand curled tight around yours like it was a lifeline.

Robby cleared his throat. Stepped back just a little. And you saw it—the tremble at the corner of his mouth. The way he blinked too many times in a row.

He wasn’t immune to it.

Not this time.

“You take care of her,” he said, voice thick. “You hear me?”

Jack—eyes glassy, jaw tight—just nodded. One firm, reverent nod.

“I do,” he said.

And for once, that wasn’t a promise.

It was a fact.

A vow already lived.

Robby stepped back.

A quiet shift. No words, no fuss. Just one last glance—full of something that lived between pride and grief—and then he stepped aside, slow and careful, like his body knew he had to let go before his heart was ready.

And then it was just you and Jack.

He stepped in just a little closer—like the space between you, however small, had finally become too much. His hand tightened around yours, his breath shallow, like holding it together had taken everything he had.

The moment he saw you—really saw you—something behind his eyes cracked wide open.

He didn’t smile. Not right away.

He didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t reach for you like someone confident or composed.

It was like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—and still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked—caught somewhere between joy and everything else swelling behind your ribs.

The dress fit like a memory and a dream at once. Sleek. Understated. A silhouette that didn’t beg for attention, but held it all the same. Clean lines. Long sleeves. A bodice tailored just enough to feel timeless. A low back. No shimmer. No lace. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Just you.

Jack took a breath—slow and shaky.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking out loud.

You blinked fast, vision swimming.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry before we even say anything,” you managed, voice trembling.

He gave a small, broken laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You could feel the crowd behind you. Every attending. Every nurse. Every person who thought they knew Jack Abbot—stoic in trauma bays, voice sharp, pulse steady no matter what walked through the doors.

And now? They were seeing him like this.

Glass-eyed. Soft-spoken. Undone.

Jack looked at you again. Really looked.

“I knew I was gonna love you,” he said. “But I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

Your breath caught. “Like what?”

He smiled—slow, quiet, reverent.

“Like peace.”

You blinked so fast it almost turned into a sob. “God. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you whispered, smiling through it.

Behind you, the music began to fade. The officiant cleared his throat.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like it had done a thousand times before—only this time, it meant something.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Not in combat. Not in med school. Not even the first time I intubated someone on a moving Humvee.”

You laughed, choked and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected. “That’s the important part.”

The officiant spoke then, calling for quiet.

But Jack leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely touched the air.

“Tell me when to breathe,” he said.

You smiled, heart wrecked and steady all at once.

“I’ve got you.”

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER attending, man who spent a lifetime holding everything together—closed his eyes and let himself believe you.

Because for once in his life, he didn’t have to be ready for the worst.

He just had to stand beside the best thing that ever happened to him.

And say yes.

[asxgard]

I wanted something where Abbott gets involved with a younger resident — maybe everyone in the ER knows about it, except the interns, since it’s their first day. Maybe the resident doesn’t like Trinity’s style, and Trinity goes to complain to Jack, but Jack defends his resident.

In Your Defense | one shot

Dr. Jack Abbot x f!resident!reader

Requested

Summary: After getting on your nerves all day, you and Santos finally go toe-to-toe over a patient. Jack comes to your defense.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: I’ve been floating around ideas of my own of Jack with a resident👀so this was fun!

Sorry it took a bit! I got distracted with a few other things, and I wanted to make sure Companionship got out yesterday. Plus, this became a lot longer than I originally intended. I hope you like it @mayabbot !

Word Count: 2.7k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content.

Warnings: age gap, semi-established relationship, foul language, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, mild Santos hate due difference in style, Pittfest

not beta read

The thing about Dr. Jack Abbot was, you did not need a label to know what you meant to him. There was no officiality of a title, even though you were both serious about each other — but frankly, the title was just a word. You knew where you stood, spending nights in his apartment and cooking breakfast together. He never hesitated to remind you that you belonged to him. Not in the overly possessive way, but in the silent always there type of way.

Jack had a past, and while you never pushed, he opened slowly. He had held you out of reach for some time before you realized what was truly brewing between you, and after he began to share, you thought the slow, quiet way you existed around each other was enough. He had loved and lost, he had fought and sacrificed, so you always assured him there was no rush. Not with you. You supposed there would be something to be said when you finished your residency, since that was a big priority in your life, but that was still a year away.

Like most things, your relationship with Jack did not stay secret for long in the halls of the Pitt. You really should have known better — Princess and Perlah were bloodhounds when it came to sniffing out things like that, and the bet did little to keep it private. You were unsure who had started it, but you were surprised that it was Robby who had walked away with the money. It felt like cheating, since he had insider knowledge after catching the two of you at a bar, but you never said anything.

Waking up in his bed alone was not uncommon — since after your dayshifts you sometimes would just wander to his apartment as opposed to your own. You would curl into his sheets and his smell, even when he would not be home all night. He never minded, and frankly even encouraged it. Working opposite shifts than him cut back on time you had together, but you knew it was only a matter of time before you were back on nights due to your flip-flopping schedule.

He looked worn down when you arrived at the Pitt for your shift, bright-eyed from a full night's rest in his bed. He followed you into the staff lounge so you could put your lunch away and he poured a bit of coffee to top off your thermos.

“Is it a ‘good morning’ type of morning, or a quiet ‘let me contemplate’ type of morning?”

He pursed his lips, “Neither. I lost a vet last night, spent two hours coding him.”

You sucked in a breath, knowing it had been a rough one for him. Those nights were far and few between, but never handled them very well. He was getting better, but oftentimes, he found himself on the roof.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” You said, knowing there was not much to say that would actually make it feel any better. “I made dinner last night, I left some leftovers in your fridge.”

He nodded, “At least we’ll have tonight and tomorrow together.”

You smiled, “I’m looking forward to it. Meet at yours?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

You chuckled, “Go get some rest, old man.”

An eyebrow rose in a challenge, “You won’t be saying that later.”

You smirked, “Counting on it.”

He gave you a rushed kiss on the lips, ensuring it was quick and private, before he was out the door. You sipped on your coffee and let out a long sigh, moving towards the charge desk and greeting Dana with a grin.

You let out a low whistle when you looked up at the board, “Damn, they got hammered last night.”

Frank Langdon stepped beside you to lean against the desk, “Why do I have a feeling you’re going to say the Q word? Don’t you dare, or I swear to god.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, “It was one time over a year ago. Who do I look like? Shen? I’m no longer an amatuer.”

“I’m so glad I don’t work with him much. He’s like a walking jinx at this point.”

“He’s not so bad.” You laughed, “I see we got some newbies.”

Langdon glanced over his shoulder, “Two med students, an intern and an R2.”

“Oh, fun.”

—

You learned all the new faces over the course of the next hour. You found you liked the med students well enough, and the R2, Melissa King, but the intern was beginning to rub you the wrong way. Calloused and indifferent did not mesh well in the chaos of the Pitt, or the team player attitude Robby always tried to instill in everyone.

Santos was the type of person you had vehemently disliked during your med student rotations, and after hearing a few cruel nicknames she had picked for Whitaker and Javadi, you brought it to Langdon’s attention. According to Jack, Langdon had walked into the Pitt with the same type of overconfident attitude, and Robby had taken him under his wing and straightened him out. Maybe you thought he would pass on the wisdom. Not to mention, it took the drama off your plate. You had enough worries keeping your relationship with Jack away from Gloria’s ears, and the last thing you wanted to do was get in the middle of something.

“Trust me, I hear you. She already ordered something without clearing it with me first.”

Your nose scrunched in annoyance, “We don’t need someone like that down here.”

“Maybe you could let her shadow you…” he said, a smile growing as your annoyance did. “Show her the ropes. You know, that whole no-nonsense but still empathetic thing you’ve got going on might be right up her alley. You’d be a wonderful teacher.”

You deadpanned, “You owe me. Like super, major—”

“You’re the best!”

You wished you had gone to Collins instead.

Try as you did, the brashness of Santos did not quell under your careful hand and you grew more frustrated with her poor bedside manner and knack for doing things before clearing them. Just when you stepped away to use the restroom, she ordered BPAP for one of your patients and nearly killed him. Yelling was not in your wheelhouse, nor was letting something like this get the better of you, but as the shift ticked on, your fuse grew shorter. Screaming would be the worst teaching tool, but she seemed to railroad over any and all of your advice.

You passed her off to Mohan to take an hour seeing your own patients without Santos’ shadow. At the end of the hour, Mohan only gave you a knowing glance before getting back to it. By the time you went to complain to Langdon, he had disappeared. Just a bit after that, Robby sent Collins home.

Taking a deep breath, you pep-talked yourself into holding it in until the end of your shift. Then you could pass the news on to Robby and go home to forget about it.

—

When the mass casualty event was called, you fiddled with your hands, rubbing anxious circles on one of your palms. The shift had beat you up and left you out to dry, and you knew you were not likely to get out on time. Anxiety thrummed through your system, or perhaps it was the anticipation

Jack’s face was a welcomed one and you wanted to thank whoever you could that he had showed up when he did, a mess of supplies from his truck. With both Robby and Jack at the head of this, you knew the team would get through it. One patient at a time.

Robby placed you in the pink zone, with instructions to float over to yellow if they needed help. Jack found you in the supply closet trying to grab what you could to prepare for the influx in your zone, and he seemed to read you like your shift had been written on your face.

The braindead boy who no one could help. The drowned little girl no one could have saved. Dana being punched by an angry patient, which set your teeth on edge. The anguished screams of grieving family members. Your frustration with the cocky intern. Langdon abandoning you. Collins going home early. The anticipation of all the blood and loss that was sure to be waiting for you as soon as the first cars arrived with the Pittfest victims.

He squeezed your hand, “Find me if you need anything. I got you.”

There it was, that silent, all-knowing ‘always here’ anchor you had needed given in just a few simple words and a giant gesture. You smiled at him and squeezed his back, exhausted and relieved all at once.

You kicked it into gear, getting to work in your zone. Trying to ignore the tragedy around you and just focus on the medicine was easier said than done, especially getting more and more covered in blood as the shift dragged on. It truly was a blur, except for the fact that each patient was clear as day in your head.

Intubating, assessing, applying pressure to wounds, checking on the status of the operating rooms for your more critical patients, forwarding a few to red. Rinse. Repeat. A never ending cycle of carnage.

Mel whizzed past you and you looked back down at your patient, checking his pulse points. He was as stable as he was going to get, and you waved McKay over to him so you could run by yellow zone to see if they needed anything.

Whitaker’s wide eyes greeted you, “She’s doing a REBOA.”

You stopped dead, “What? Who?”

His eyes looked over to Santos, who was leaning over a patient. All the blood rushed from your head, anger and fear tangling together.

Mel was beside you then, tapping her fingers together in an anxious fashion, “I told her—I tried—“

You swallowed before rushing forward. She had already inserted the balloon, and there was not much you could do. You had only done one before, during a mass pile up over a year before, but it was under Jack’s careful supervision.

“Are you insane?” You hissed low, trying not to cause a scene.

Santos only glanced at you, “Patient was bleeding out, need to—“

“No, no, no, no.” Something snapped and all the frustration you had been feeling all day came barreling out of you. “What you need to do, Dr. Santos, is clear shit like this with your senior resident. With an attending. Literally anyone else. Mel already told you no and what do you do? This is how people die. Doctors feeding their own fucking egos and not letting themselves be checked.”

She simply stared at you, “It’s already—“

“No, this was rash.” You glanced down at the patient, seeing that the balloon was likely already in place, but from Donnie’s grim features, the patient was not doing much better. “If it worked? Amazing, great. You saved a patient. But if you keep doing this shit, someone is going to die. You’re not as infallible as you seem to think you are.”

You felt him before you saw him, a once calming presence now beside you and it made all your hairs stand on end. Like you had been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

At the hospital, he was your attending, you were the resident and you definitely should not have lost your cool like that in the middle of the shitstorm that was already occurring. You physically braced yourself, steeling your composure and trying not to wince. Jack did not scold in public, but you had made a scene.

Jack’s attention had been pulled away from his patient at a particular voice carrying through the air, growing louder as it continued. Your voice. Unmistakable and in the chaos, completely unnerving. It was not like you to shout, or yell, especially in the mess the Pitt had found itself in. He was walking towards your voice without even thinking about it, gait rushed but not running.

“She performed a REBOA.” Mel told Jack as he approached, eyeing each of you warily. “I told her not to.” She gestured to you. “She told her not to.”

You felt Jack’s eyes on your face, and you glanced over to him. He took in your features and looked back to Santos.

“A REBOA? Are you shitting me?”

“Dr. Abbot, I couldn’t get any of the attendings and the patient was bleeding out. No other options.” Santos told him, looking at you again. “I don’t think her yelling about it, or at me right now is exactly—“

“She is a resident and you are an intern. You never should have done that on your own, ever.”

You blinked, half surprised, half thankful. You never wanted your relationship with him to bleed into the professional act you two played whenever you were in the hospital. You never wanted him to play favorites or defend you when you didn’t deserve it. But a part of you relished in him supporting you. Especially after dealing with her going over your head your entire shift.

Two nightshift nurses — Alma and Riley — and Donnie exchanged knowing glances, hiding their smirks well, while Santos just stood there. Jack looked back to you and raised an eyebrow, asking if you were okay without any words.

You gave him the tiniest of nods, likely not to be seen as anything more than a twitch, but Jack caught it easily. You were okay, for the most part anyway. You could talk to him about all of it later. You hoped this could all be behind you soon, as mild embarrassment for yelling in the ED crept up your cheeks. You would pass along the information to Robby and let him handle it. He would be likely to scold you for losing your cool and yelling like he had earlier with Langdon, who was now back floating through zones with little explanation as to why he had left.

Santos looked between you two like she was trying to read you.

Jack had his focus back on the patient, asking Donnie for her vitals.

“Carotid’s weak. Radial’s barely there.” Donnie said.

“Another three cc’s in the balloon.” Jack advised and Santos followed the instruction.

Whitaker looked up, “Radial’s much stronger now.”

“Lock the balloon. Check the wound.”

“Wound’s dry, barely a trickle.”

“That’s because there’s no blood going to her legs.” Mel whispered from beside you.

“Get IR and Vascular on the case.”

The patient began coming to, opening her eyes and looking around her tiredly. There was a relief in the sight, but the fact that this would only make Santos more bold in the future made you worry.

Jack leaned in close to Santos, “That was reckless and could have killed the patient. You need to follow the chain of command here.”

Santos gave a tense nod, her tiny smile disappearing.

You stepped away when Jack did, finding a few moments when you pulled off your gown to replace it with a fresh one. He stepped behind you to tie it while you reached for new gloves.

“It’s been a shift.” You explained simply, not even needing him to open his mouth. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

“We can talk about it later.”

You turned to face him, “No, if you’re going to scold me, I’d rather you do it now. Get it out of the way.”

He studied your face. “Can’t change anything now. She did save the patient, but she could've just as easily made it worse. And you lost it for a minute. You know as well as anyone that yelling achieves nothing.”

You cringed, remembering your med school days.

“But you weren’t wrong.” He added, grabbing your arm and forcing you to look at him. “She took an unnecessary risk and hopefully next time, will try to find an attending, or a resident. I’ll mention it to Robby, maybe he can help her get back on track. The Pitt doesn’t need any more egos, I think we’re at capacity.”

A small smirk broke through on your lips, “Thank you.”

“You feel good enough to get back to it?” He raised a careful eyebrow.

You took a breath and nodded. You parted without ceremony, heading back to your respective zones and got lost in the work.

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Dr. Abbot taglist: @flyinglama @valhallavalkyrie9 @melancholyy-hill @travelingmypassion @yournerdmodziata @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged

Did my own feelings about Santos bleed into this? …maybe. She grew on me, but oh my god she really was getting on my last nerve for most of this season. I hope season 2 comes with some growth from her.

[forever-rogue]

❛ just a few more stitches and you’ll be as good as new.” But with new TLOU2 old joel who can’t see too well cause of the glasses and all and the reader is stitching him up🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

AN | Old man Joel with the glasses killed me tbh. Enjoy💕

Pairing | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader 

Warnings | None

Word Count | 2k

Masterlist | Joel, Main 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You're bleeding,” a huff of annoyance immediately met your ears, which only served to make you hold back your laughter.

“And you're a pain in the ass,” his words had no bite as you rolled your eyes at him before walking closer and looking to see exactly what he was doing, “you come here just to state the obvious?”

“Oh, you've got jokes today,” you reached for his wrist and gently turned his arm around so you could see what bad happened, “can you even see what you're doing?”

He tutted at you but didn't pull out of your touch. Instead he watched you intently as you assessed the damage, “I forgot my glasses downstairs.”

“And you couldn't be bothered to get them before attempting to stitch yourself up,” you raised an eyebrow at him, and a light blush bloomed in his eyes. You let out a long sigh before reaching for the rag he'd brought to clean up the wound, “what am I going to do with you, Miller?”

“Leave me to suffer, I suppose,” he shrugged as you caught his eye and studied him intently. Your entire body felt like it was buzzing as your skin touched his eyes. You wondered if he could feel it too. Sometimes you were sure he did and other times you were positive he only saw you as a nuisance, “I can do this on my own, darlin’.”

“I know that,” you poured some alcohol on the rag and gently pressed it against his skin to clean out the wound, “but we both know I'm not leaving and letting you do this on your own. Glasses or not.”

A silence fell over the two of you as you looked his arm over to make sure it wasn't anything too bad. When you looked up in the mirror and found him staring back at you, he simply said, “I know.”

Once you were satisfied with the cleaning, you grabbed the needle and thread, making sure to disinfect the needle first. You absentmindedly stroked the inside of his wrist, “this is going to hurt.”

“I'm used to it by now,” if only you knew half of what he'd been through. But he had vowed to himself that he'd spare you the horror; you didn't need to know all the things that made him who he was today.

“Just a few more stitches and you'll be good as new. What happened?” You took the needle and thread and gently started going in to close the wound. Luckily it wasn't too big or deep.

“Something stupid,” he grimaced slightly at the feeling of the needle entering his skin. He focused his entire attention on watching you, the gentle way you moved, the shine of your hair, the smell of your shampoo.

“Tell me,” you whispered.

“I cut my arm on the fence to the stables. Wasn't paying attention and here we are,” he could tell you were doing everything you could not to laugh as you listened to him, “I told you it was stupid, ain't no need for you to laugh.”

“Joel,” you quickly finished, securing the sutures and wrapping his arm up so it would stay clean and dry while it healed, “big, bad, scary Joel Miller. Immune to everything but a little old fence.”

You let go of his arm before washing your own hands and putting everything away. You were always like that, taking care of and looking after everyone else. You had a big, soft heart, which was something Joel admired greatly.

“I guess I'm just getting soft in my old age,” you turned around and gently pushed a stray look of hair off his face. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, “thank you.”

You nodded before heading out of the bathroom and motioning for him to follow you. You trekked into the kitchen - his kitchen to be exact - and immediately went to start on water for tea, “hope you don't mind tea. My mom always told me that there's nothing a good cup of tea couldn't solve.”

“I love tea,” he promised, feeling oddly warm and tender inside. Even if he had hated tea, he would have loved it knowing it was made by you. 

“I heard what you did the other week,” you leaned against the counter, facing him as he leaned next to the island, “for Ellie and Dina. With that old guy.”

“Oh, I-”

“I can't believe its basically the end of the world and people are still choosing to be homophobic,” you huffed, throwing your hands in exasperation, “I mean, I cant believe anyone would be like that ever. But still. What you did was amazing. We need more people like that.”

“Ellie would say differently.”

“She wouldn't,” you insisted, “at least not underneath it all. Knowing that her dad showed up for her like that is going to stick with her forever. I know things have been hard between the two of you, but you have to remember she's still a kid. And she's been through a lot. Things take time, but that doesn't mean she doesn't love you.”

“It feels like I'm the worst person she's ever met sometimes,” he watched as you grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and set about preparing the tea you both liked. You always remembered such little details and that was something that warmed his heart to no end.

“She doesn't hate you,” you promised as you set a cup next to him, “and neither do I.”

“I never thought you did.”

“Good,” you smiled softly at him before blowing on the hot tea and taking a small sip, “you gonna be okay on your own or are you gonna fall down the stairs next?”

“I think I'll manage,” he promised, “when you came here earlier…did you need something?”

“Oh,” you shrugged it off like it was no big deal, “I just wanted to come and see you. Nothing important. Had to make sure you didn't die on me or anything knowing how easily you managed to get hurt.”

“You're never going to let this go, are you?”

“Unlikely,” you grinned at him, “see you around, Joel. Take it easy on your arm.”

“Bye,” he watched as you set your cup in the sink and made sure everything was cleaned before heading out. Just before you disappeared you turned around and offered him a small wave and sweet smile. 

He stood there for a few moments, mug still clutched tightly in his hand as he tried to reconcile his own feelings. 

You made him feel a million different things that he hadn't felt in such a long time. He often wondered if he was capable of such feelings anymore, sure he was imagining it. Until he saw you and you made him feel it all over again. 

Not that he'd ever admit; no, that was pointless. Instead, he'd suffer in agony in silence.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A knock at your door caused you to almost slice your finger on the peeler as you jumped slightly. After taking a moment to catch your breath, you went to the door and opened it to find Joel standing there, an unreadable look on his face, “hey cowboy, c'mon in.”

“I just-”

“I said come in,” you didn't give him the opportunity to argue as you walked back to the kitchen where you were currently preparing a stew to fight the winter chill. Joel was hit with the smells and it served to make him feel calm and at home, “you want to help me chop some vegetables?”

“I ain't about to say no to you,” he said and stood next to you, and started cutting up the veggies you had laid out, “I know better than that.”

“Smart man,” you paused for a moment and studied him, “you're wearing your glasses. Good.”

“Didn't need anymore injuries.”

“Hmm,” you hummed in agreement before turning back to your peeling, “is this a work call or did you just want to see me?”

“I, ugh,” he stuttered and paused for a moment. He should have known you'd catch onto him so easily. Not that he was hard to read in the slightest, “I was wondering if you'd take a look at my arm…just to make sure its healing right.”

“Oh,” you drew out the word, voice sweet and soft, “I see. Couldn't possibly ask anyone else to take a look, huh?”

“Well, you are the one that stitched it up in the first place,” he pointed out, intently focused on the vegetables he was cutting, “so.”

“So,” you parroted, “I can take a look after dinner, if you're willing to stay.”

“Y-yeah,” he agreed, “I'd like that.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was late by the time you were finished with dinner, bellies full and a comfortable silence falling over you. 

You scooted your chair closer to him, reaching for his arm and being extra gentle as you pushed up his sleeve to expose his forearm. You swallowed thickly at the sight of his strong arms, chiding yourself for basically thirsting after the man due to his arms. Pathetic. But it was Joel…and as you had discovered, he was your weakness.

You looked over the stitches, gently tracing your finger along the healing skin. You both noticed how goosebumps raised on his skin from your soft touch, “it looks good. I think in another day or two we can take your stitches out.”

“We?”

“I can take them out,” a huff of laughter escaped your lips as you pulled his sleeve back down. You found him watching your every move. You kept your hand on top of his, fascinated by how much bigger his hand was than yours. You cleared your throat before reminding yourself to ask normal, “I think you'll be able to keep your arm.”

“Oh thank God,” he drawled, causing you to smile at him, “who knows what would have happened if you hadn't come to my rescue.”

“I think you'd have been fine. Probably just a worse scar from shoddy workmanship.”

“Well, I'm glad you found me when you did,” you realized just how close the two of you were, his face inches from yours. He smelled good, clean and fresh, and there was always something distinctly masculine about him, “couldn't have something like a scar marring my beauty.”

“Definitely not,” you agreed, your eyes flicking to his lips without meaning to you. You knew he'd noticed and both of you moved just slightly closer. He reached up and settled his hand gently on your neck just as you went in to finally kiss him. 

Just before he met your lips, another loud knock at your door caused you both to pull apart.

So. Fucking. Close.

“Come in, its open,” with an internal, and probably external sigh you slumped in your chair. You'd imagined this moment at least a hundred times and when it was finally happening, it just had to be interrupted.

Your entire face was warm and you looked over at Joel to find him looking just as deflated as you felt.

Ellie and Dina bounded in, clearly oblivious to what they had interrupted. 

“There's kittens,” Ellie said excitedly, “we found a couple of them on a sweep outside the fence, “but they're small. We need to get them inside. C-can you come help?”

You and Joel exchanged a look, longing and forlorn, but you knew that it wasn't the end of whatever you had just started.

“Let's go save some kittens,” you stood up and Joel followed suit, letting his hand brush against yours. You took his hand in yours and gave it a squeeze. 

Just a little something for now. Just for both of you.

Just enough for now.

[buckadoodledoo]

can't stop thinking about roommates buck and eddie wanting this to last forever and ever and both feeling bad about this. eddie feels Bad because like, he keeps selfishly hoping and praying for things to be Wrong with the apartments buck is looking at. even though he knows buck deserves to have his own space and his own life and that's Fine it's just so fine. he can’t make him stay. but also he can’t stop trying to make buck stay. he's calling it our house and our bedroom and he plants a little herb garden because buck mentioned wanting one and he's asking buck if he thinks they should put up new shelves in the kitchen and get some cool glass jars for buck's baking ingedients and buck's got his own column on the weekly organiser and god what is he doing? and buck feels BAD because eddie's being so kind and patient and accommodating, but he deserves his space back, his house back. it was never really buck's. he was just supposed to hold onto it until eddie and chris came back. and they're back now. but also he just, can’t bring himself to keep looking for another place even though he knows he Should. he does at first. half-heartedly. but then he just stops. and he keeps not just letting eddie believe he's looking at places but like. lying about looking at places. he's literally making up apartments and then making up things that were wrong with them and he knows it's bad but he can’t Stop. and eddie's trying to react Normally and be supportive. like, man that sucks. don't worry, you'll find one! but really he's just like, so fucking relieved every single time. everytime buck mentions looking at a new place eddie's like, holding his breath. until buck rattles off a list of things that were wrong with it and he can finally breathe again.

and then one night, they're on the couch, watching tv, having a few beers. buck's just told him about another fake uninhabitable place. and it just slips out, quiet. "stay" eddie barely registers he's said it at first. but when he does, he says it again. like now that it's out there he can’t Stop. stay. buck, stay. and buck's like, what? and eddie sets his beer down and turns to buck like, stay. i want you to stay. i don't want you to find another place. i want you here. with me. with chris. where you belong. stay. and buck's breath shakes, fingers gripping his beer too tight, and he says, okay. and eddie's like, yeah? and buck's like, i— swallows. i haven't really been looking at places. i—meant to. but i couldn't, didn't want to. the thought of not—not being with you was... so i made them up. and eddie breathes out a laugh, surprised. says, you made them up. all of them? and buck ducks his head like, at least 90% of them. and eddie reaches out, tilts buck's face back up to look at him and says, i planted you a herb garden. and buck laughs, bright and loud. says, we're so stupid. and eddie laughs too, fond and relieved and just. in love. god, he's in love. and he just fucking says it, i love you. it slips out the same way stay did. and buck's laughter catches on an inhale. and he says, eddie. a little awed. a little desperate. and eddie thinks, this is it. no going back now. not that he wants to. this is it. this is his joy. and he takes the beer from buck's clasped hand, fingers brushing over his knuckles. sets it down next to his own. reaches back out, holds buck's face in his hands and kisses him. and buck makes a sound like a whimper and well, that's it. they're all over each other. hands everywhere, pressed together, moving together. and they can’t stop kissing. like they’re trying to climb inside of each other. can barely part long enough to shove down their pants. at some point one of their legs knocks the beer bottles over but they barely notice. at some point eddie manages to form a somewhat coherent thought long enough to get his hand around them both. at some point eddie says it again. stay. i love you. and buck realises that he didn't say it back—so he does now. breathes an i love you too into eddie’s mouth that slides into groan as he comes all over them both.

[shaiyasstuff]

evermore | zayne

synopsis : Bound by lifetimes, you loved him in silence—ever unseen, ever aching—while he chases a destiny that isn’t yours and never will be. content : angst, references to both of zayne’s myth cards, non-mc!reader w/n : this was originally a request but I decided to write this a little differently. hope you still enjoy :D

You had always been there.

Not just beside him. With him.

Bound not by chance, but by something older.

Deeper. Crueler.

You were his confidante. His companion. The shadow that stitched his jagged edges back together when the world carved him into pieces.

You loved him in ways that rewrote you.

Bent for him. Broke for him.

Sacrificed yourself at the altar of his happiness, even when it meant bleeding from wounds he never saw.

Because every time the ache grew too loud, every time doubt clawed at your throat—

All it took was a look.

Those dark locks falling over his brow like spilled ink.

And his eyes—hazel, burning like dying embers at dusk—

God, they undid you.

You tried.

Tried to love him in silence. Tried to convince yourself that was enough.

But at some point, you found yourself on your knees, fists clenched, cursing the stars for tying you to a man who was never meant to be yours.

No matter how hard you loved.

No matter how long you waited.

Still—you stayed.

You weathered the lifetimes.

You sewed together the shattered pieces of him, even when he looked through you like you were nothing but a whisper from another world.

You learned to live with that pain.

To carry it quietly.

To love him without hope.

You remembered them all—not because you were chosen, but because you were cursed to.

“Zayne…” you whispered now, reaching out to touch his crystallized hand, fingers trembling. A shimmer of warmth passed from your skin to his, softening the frost that coated him.

His Evol always surged like this when the memories overwhelmed him—especially when it was about her.

Your eyes climbed to his face.

Still, frozen in grief.

Then, slowly, his lashes fluttered. He stirred. His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“I’m okay… I just… needed to see her again.”

You nodded. Sat beside him without a word.

Above you, the tree branches swayed in the wind, leaves rustling like the whisper of time passing.

You didn’t want to ask.

But you needed to.

For your own heart’s sake.

“Is she worth it?”

The silence stretched.

And when he finally met your eyes—those same eyes you loved like a prayer—

You already knew.

“I would give up forever,” he said, voice quiet and sure, “just to hold her.”

Something in you cracked, then.

But you still smiled. Small. Gentle.

Even as your heart shattered like glass beneath your ribs.

The door clicked shut behind you, the familiar chime of the automatic lock humming through the quiet. You kicked off your shoes with a tired sigh.

From the hallway, a soft mewl greeted you.

Astra.

She brushed against your legs, weaving figure-eights as you bent down, your fingers carding gently through her fur. “Missed me?” you whispered.

She purred in reply, trailing after you as you trudged to the couch. You collapsed into it, limbs heavy from the day, exhaustion pooling beneath your eyes.

Your hand continued its slow rhythm across her back, and she curled beside you, content.

But your mind was far from present.

It drifted—back to the dream.

Or memory. Or something in between.

You remembered the way the cool wind felt against your body, the way the sky stretched in endless blue above the grass-covered mountain.

And the ring.

Slipping cool and weightless onto your finger.

You had looked at it—then at him.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured.

And Zayne…

He smiled down at you, eyes warm, hand reaching up to pat your head with a fondness that made your chest ache even now.

“Only you,” he said, “can be up in these mountains with me.”

You grinned at him. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he replied.

But promises—promises were fragile things.

You blinked back into the present and stood slowly, making your way to the bedroom. Your doctor’s coat slipped from your shoulders and landed carelessly on the floor as you passed by the framed photos—snapshots from med school.

You and Zayne, younger then, smiling over textbooks and scrubs.

Your eyes caught on the certificate on the wall.

Surgeon.

A title you earned with blood and sleepless nights.

But none of it mattered in the dream.

Not when you saw her.

“Zayne, she’s…?” you had asked, pointing toward the girl behind him.

He followed your gaze and nodded. “I found her at the bottom of the mountain,” he said simply. “She helped heal Bai Ze.”

Only then had you noticed the limp in the white sheep trailing behind them. You knelt, brushing its soft wool as it nudged your hand.

And then—

You looked up.

And everything shifted.

He wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at her.

And in that fleeting silence, in the way their eyes met—

You realized something you had never wanted to.

You didn’t belong.

Not anymore.

The next part came in fragments.

“Doing this will end your life,” you hissed, your voice trembling as you stood behind him.

He turned slowly. His face was unreadable.

“I know,” he said. “But it’s the only way she lives.”

You stared at him.

“What about me?”

Your voice cracked with it. The pain. The betrayal.

He looked down.

And said nothing.

That was all the answer you needed.

You nodded once, quietly. “I see.”

And you turned away.

You never looked back.

The last time you saw him—your beloved, your husband—he wasn’t flesh and blood anymore.

Only light.

A single radiant beam disappearing into the mountains.

Your breath caught in your throat as the memory shattered.

Steam clung thickly to your skin, fogging up the bathroom mirror. The shower still ran behind you, its hiss dull and distant.

You stood there, motionless.

Trying to remember what it felt like to be loved.

And what it meant to let go.

—•

Sunlight filtered in through the half-closed blinds of your office, casting slanted lines across the clutter of reports and confirmation slips strewn haphazardly over your desk.

You let out a quiet sigh, setting your pen down and pressing your hands against your face, exhaustion pooling behind your eyes.

You didn’t hear the knock.

Didn’t register the soft footsteps until a quiet voice pulled you from your haze.

“I brought cake.”

Your head snapped up.

Zayne stood at the doorway, eyes calm, a faint crease of concern between his brows. In one hand, a plastic bag rustled faintly with the promise of sweetness. In the other—your usual coffee, and a milk tea.

Your gaze lingered on the drinks before returning to his.

“Zayne,” you breathed, rising from your chair as you began tidying the papers on your desk, trying not to look too flustered by his sudden presence.

He stepped forward, wordlessly setting the drinks down with practiced ease, the plastic bag rustling softly in the quiet room.

“How’s the patient in the west wing?” he asked, voice low as he leaned slightly against the edge of your desk.

You opened the cake box with childlike eagerness, the sweet scent instantly lifting the weight from your shoulders. “She’s okay,” you replied, picking up a fork. “Her MRI came back clean, but I’m keeping her in for observation. Just to be sure.”

He nodded, humming thoughtfully as he took a sip of his milk tea.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was familiar. Comfortable.

Like the two of you had always spoken more through glances and gestures than words.

But the feeling returned—quiet, gnawing, familiar.

That dull ache in your chest, like fate was whispering—no, screaming—that he was never meant to be yours.

You bit your lip, the taste of sugar still lingering on your tongue.

“How is she?”

Your voice came out softer than intended, but steady. Controlled.

She—the girl who stirred something in him.

The one who made his Evol flicker without warning.

The one who belonged in the spaces you so carefully carved yourself into.

Zayne glanced up at you, his expression unreadable.

You kept your gaze on the cake, pretending to be occupied, but your fingers had gone still.

“How is she?” you asked again, more firmly this time—because you needed to hear it, even if it shattered you.

Zayne cleared his throat, standing a little straighter. “She’s away for a mission,” he said, then took another sip of his drink as if the answer meant nothing. As if it didn’t cleave something open in you.

You nodded, eyes flicking away.

And suddenly, the room felt too still. Too quiet.

The air thickened with everything unspoken.

You finished your cake in rushed bites, barely tasting it. “I need to do my rounds,” you said, voice far too bright, smile pulled a little too fast across your lips.

He didn’t stop you.

Just watched as you grabbed your coffee and turned on your heel.

The hallway outside was cooler, but it did nothing to ease the nausea coiling in your stomach.

You felt sick.

Because no matter how hard you tried,

you would never be her.

Your hand braced against the cold wall, trying to steady yourself as your breath came in shallow waves.

“He is not meant to be yours.”

The voice echoed—low, knowing. Maybe it was just the part of you that finally stopped pretending.

“Stop,” you whispered, shutting your eyes tightly, as if the darkness behind your lids could muffle the sound.

But it didn’t.

“He will never be yours.”

Your chest ached. Your fingers curled into a fist against the wall.

Then why am I always here?

But the silence that followed had no answer.

—•

You lay still in bed, cocooned beneath your blanket, as moonlight spilled through the slats of your blinds, painting quiet silver patterns across your room.

Astra perched atop the cabinet, her gaze steady—silent and ever watchful.

You turned your head toward her, then away, because you knew that look. The kind that saw through everything, even the things you refused to name.

You had watched him pine for her in every life.

Why should this one be any different?

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket as your thoughts drifted—slipping through cracks in time.

You remembered a coffee shop in another universe.

Where laughter smelled like cinnamon and hope tasted like burnt espresso.

Where he sat across from you, eyes too gentle, heart too torn.

And you—foolish and aching—had pushed him toward her.

You remembered another life.

The one where she died in his arms—again and again. And you were always there, the ghost in the background, stitching him back together each time.

You remembered that tower.

The one where you stood beside him at the edge of it all, the sky ablaze and the world crumbling beneath your feet.

You had held his hand as he bled out the last of his strength for her sake.

And even then—

Even then, his eyes searched for her.

Not you.

Never you.

And still, you died with him.

Because you didn’t know how not to.

The shrill sound of the doorbell cut through the stillness like a blade, jolting you upright from your bed. You clutched your blanket, heart thudding, instinct already propelling you forward.

You didn’t need to check.

You knew it was him.

Your footsteps were quick, uneven against the floor as you rushed to the door. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the handle, breath catching in your throat.

And then—

You opened it.

Zayne stood there.

Barely.

His Evol had flared again—ice creeping violently from his fingertips up to his neck, frost tracing sharp veins along his jaw. He looked as if the cold had consumed him from the inside out.

“Zayne!”

You caught him as he collapsed forward, his weight folding into your arms like a crumpled page. Your knees nearly buckled, but you held firm.

Your hands flew to his neck, cradling the frozen skin there, pouring the warmth of your Evol into him in desperate waves. “What happened?” you asked, voice taut with panic.

But you already knew.

It was her.

It was always her.

And still, you pressed closer, anchoring him with your touch, ignoring the way your chest ached—splintered open like it always did when he came to you like this.

Not as a lover.

Not even as a friend.

But as a ghost chasing the shadow of someone else.

Your thumbs brushed his icy skin, the pain on his face so familiar it made your throat close.

You hated this part of yourself.

The part that would still set herself on fire just to thaw him out.

Even knowing—

He would never look at you the way he looked at her.

Not in this life.

Not in the last.

Not in any of them.

And still—you held him.

Because it was the only way he ever let you close.

You pulled him inside, the cold from his body seeping into your own as you struggled to keep him upright. The door clicked shut behind you with a hollow finality.

Astra emerged from the hallway, her paws pattering softly against the floor. She mewled, distressed, circling your feet as you guided Zayne to the couch.

You cradled him gently, your Evol still working to warm his frozen skin, but your patience had long begun to fray.

“You need to stop this,” you hissed, your voice sharp, low, breaking at the edges.

He didn’t respond.

Just looked away, eyes heavy with guilt—or worse, with nothing at all.

Like he couldn’t bear to face you.

Or simply didn’t care to.

And that hurt more than you wanted it to.

Because you were always the aftermath.

The one to pick him up when the cold became too much.

The one who held him while he grieved her, again and again, until his Evol nearly killed him for wanting something he could never keep.

Your fingers trembled against his jaw, still pouring heat into his veins even as your own heart chilled.

How many more times would you do this?

How many more times would you save him—

Just for him to return to someone else?

“God damnit, you can’t be with her—can’t you see?”

Your voice cracked, trembling on the edge of a scream as your hands pressed against his skin, Evol flaring. Heat surged from your palms, melting the ice that clung to his body like a second skin.

The frost hissed as it gave way, turning to droplets that clung to his collarbone and slid down, but he still didn’t speak.

His gaze shifted—hardened.

But silence was his answer.

It always was.

And that silence was louder than any confession.

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face, because you knew—God, you knew.

It wasn’t his fault.

None of it ever was.

He was shaped—for her.

Molded by the stars, stitched into fate’s design, every fragment of his soul angled toward hers.

And he didn’t even know.

But you did.

You were the one who remembered.

Who carried the burden of memory through every life.

The one who watched, always from the outside, always the afterthought—

As he searched for her, found her, lost her, broke for her.

And you—

You were the one who stayed.

The one who died with him in towers, bled beside him in war, cradled the pieces he left behind when she was gone.

You sacrificed yourself over and over—

Just to keep them together.

And now, in this life, you still reached for him.

Still begged for a sliver of something he was never meant to give.

The ice cracked beneath your touch, but the ache in your chest only deepened.

Because no matter how fiercely you burned, he would always chase the one who lit the match.

After a while, the storm passed into stillness.

Neither of you spoke.

He lay on the couch, his breathing steady now, though the tension never left his shoulders. You sat curled on the floor beside him, cradling your scarf against your chest like it could somehow hold you together.

Moonlight spilled across the room, casting him in soft, ghostly hues. You looked at him—his face drawn in weariness, in silence, in a thousand unspoken things.

Your voice broke through the quiet.

“What’s going to happen when I’m not there to help you?”

It was barely a whisper, but it echoed loud in the stillness.

He turned his head slowly to look at you, expression unreadable, the shadows swallowing whatever emotion lingered in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said simply.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You sighed, gaze dropping to your hands, then to the floor.

Because he didn’t know.

Because he never thought about a life without you—

While all you ever did was imagine his without her.

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, blurring the edges of his face as you turned toward him once more.

“Zayne.”

His name trembled on your lips.

Your voice cracked, raw from everything you’ve swallowed down across lifetimes.

“I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

For a second, something shifted in his eyes—concern replacing the indifference, like he’d finally heard the weight beneath your words.

He sat up slightly, brows furrowed, the beginnings of panic flickering in his expression.

“What do you mean?”

But you couldn’t look at him.

Because if you did, you knew you’d shatter.

You had carried him through frost and fire.

Loved him quietly in the background of someone else’s story.

And now your heart—

It was tired.

So very, unbearably tired.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” you whispered, and your knees buckled beneath the weight of it.

The truth, unspoken for so many lives, finally spilled from your lips like a confession too long buried.

Zayne’s eyes widened—just a fraction—as he shot up from the couch to catch you, his arms steadying you before you could fall. His hands were warm now, thawed by your touch, but yours trembled beneath the pain.

“But all you ever think about is her,” you choked, the words clawing their way out of you. “All you ever do is rush into danger, even when it’s killing you.”

Your eyes, rimmed red with unshed tears, locked onto his.

“I’ve always been here,” you said, voice breaking.

“Can’t you see me?”

And the silence that followed felt unbearable—

Because you already knew the answer.

He could hold you.

He could worry for you.

But love—

Love was something he’d already given away.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

No spell, no plea, no lifetime strong enough to rewrite the way the stars had carved your fate.

Because even if you tried—

Even if you screamed loud enough to shake the heavens,

In the next life, and the one after that,

Perhaps until the end of time—

You would still love him.

Still chase after the echo of a man who would never turn around.

And you would still be destined to hurt.

For him.

You sank to the floor, your legs giving out beneath the weight of everything you had carried for lifetimes. The confession hung in the air like smoke—something scorched and lingering.

Zayne knelt with you, his hands hesitating before they found your shoulders, tentative and unsure.

You could feel the warmth in them now, finally, but it didn’t reach the part of you that had always longed for something deeper.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And you hated how much it still meant to hear it from him.

How even now, that single word could crack something open in you.

You looked up at him, tears clinging to your lashes. “You don’t understand,” you whispered. “You never have.”

He didn’t deny it.

He just sat there, silent.

And that silence broke you more than any rejection ever could.

He swallowed hard, eyes dark and unreadable.

“I was always there,” you said. “Even when she wasn’t. Even when you forgot my face. I chose you.”

His brows furrowed, his expression shifting—pain, guilt, something almost like grief flickering across his features.

“I didn’t know,” he murmured.

“I know you didn’t,” you said bitterly, a tear sliding down your cheek. “But that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

He reached for you again. This time, you didn’t pull away.

His arms wrapped around you carefully, like he was afraid you might shatter in his hands.

You leaned into him despite everything, because you didn’t know how not to. Because some part of you still ached for the comfort of him, even if it wasn’t love. Even if it was just this.

“I don’t know why I keep coming back to her,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s something broken in me.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. “But I know I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for you.”

You closed your eyes at his words, tears slipping free as he pressed his forehead against yours.

It wasn’t what you wanted.

It wasn’t love—not in the way you needed it.

But it was something.

A thread in the unraveling. A hand in the dark.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “I need to let go,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, just as softly.

And still, he held you.

Not as the one he was fated for.

But as the one who had always stayed.

And maybe that was enough—

Just for this moment.

Bittersweet. Quiet.

A love that would never be,

But would always remain.

[sprinklesarethebestfood]

Ok here’s some of my favorite bits

That scene of Gem watching Scar… All I could think of was this…

I think Gem and Lin Beifong would be besties.

There’s just…. Something soft about him being concerned if Grian’s ok. He cares !! 🥺 it’s not much ok but we haven’t gotten a lot of softness from these two lately I’m starved

THIS!!! I just absolutely LOVE how they showed that HG was in his head about this by drawing him in the same style that his notes are drawn in. SO TASTY!! Also just… I just wanna take a moment to appreciate all the texture… this bigger lines where he would have gone over it several times? Immaculate. The cross hatching? Immaculate. The notebook drawings feel like they’ve been done on paper and it’s just so nice!! Very well done!!!!

SPEAKING OF SOFTNESS…. Oh my goddddd the feelings!!!! The feelings are developing!!!! I also love that one of the things he daydreams about is Grian’s grumpy face that’s so sweet.

Also yes!!! Finally a break in the case!!! I have some theories— (I can’t usually catch streams so they might not be the most up to date on what’s been confirmed)

Assuming the fungus is smth that our villains have engineered… is the fungus made to react to just Grian’s dna specifically? Like could it also try to possess other hybrids? Though we don’t know much about our baddies motives, I could see that them wanting to infect hybrids to sew more negative feelings towards the hybrid community. Hybrids are already second class citizens so increasing the hate against them by making something to make them look bad would just make them more vulnerable.

And if it is reacting to Grian’s dna specifically… That begs another question. Do our baddies know Grian personally? Or is he just an easy target? They seem to be targeting both Grian and Jimmy based on last chapter… I just wonder if they have personal beef with these two… or is it that they’re both witches in addition to being hybrids that make them bigger targets?

My other thought would be maybe they know Grian’s identity as CG and are targeting him because of that, and by extension Jimmy.

We still obviously don’t have all the details but aaghh I wanted to share my thoughts on it. I love this series so much thank you for all the work you do on it to everyone that helps create it!!!!! It’s so obviously a labor of love and I’m so excited that we get to share it with you 🥰

CHAPTER 18

Now we are going back to our regular schedule of once a month, every 14-16!! Now, I rest

PREV// MASTERPOST // NEXT

If you like what we do, feel free support me on Ko Fi !

[moonstruckme]

hello <333

could you please write something about Remus x fem!reader who walks in on him crying one day? I feel like being a werewolf must take some pretty hard emotional toll on him (and just having to be Remus seems hard in general) and maybe he doesn’t want to show how scared he is, but the reader comforts him anyway 💗

thank you 🙏

Thank you for requesting sweetheart <3

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 889 words

Remus is quiet about it. You think he must think you’re asleep. You wouldn’t know he was awake, either, if not for the change in his breathing, too controlled and then too fast. A subtle sniffle seals the deal. 

You reach for him. He’s facing away from you, but he must hear the whisper of your arm against the sheets, his body going still. You hesitate with your hand a few inches from his shoulder.

“Are you hurting?” you ask. 

Another sniffle. “No.” Remus’ voice is croaky. You go the rest of the distance, cupping your hand over his shoulder and moving closer to curl your other arm around his middle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“You didn’t.” You kiss his back through the cotton of his t-shirt. It’s riddled with moth holes, a well-loved artifact from his school days. “What’s the matter, lovely?” 

“Nothing. Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you murmur. “What is it? Is it…are you nervous?” 

Nervous may not be the right word, but you’re hesitant to assign larger ones to the thing your boyfriend takes such pains not to discuss. There’s a full moon tomorrow night. Remus has dealt with full moons every month since he was four. Doesn’t make them any easier. 

“Sweetheart…” He sounds tired. He covers your hand on his stomach with his, thumb sweeping back and forth affectionately. “It’s alright.” 

You shake your head, nose pressing to his warm skin as your hold tightens on him. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I’m happy to listen. And I don’t think it’s alright.” 

Remus’ shoulders bounce once, weakly. When he speaks, his voice has something in it, something that’s not quite a smile but trying to be. “You don’t think so?” 

“No. And I certainly wouldn’t if I were in your shoes. It seems…it must be so scary.” 

“I’ve been doing it a long time, love.” 

“So?” 

There’s a pause, and then Remus lets out a breath. 

“Yeah,” he capitulates. 

You draw your hand gently down his shoulder blade. To his ribs and back up again. 

“Sometimes it’s hard to sleep the night before,” he says quietly, the way people talk to God in the dark of their bedrooms at night. “I have more energy than usual, but also it…it makes it harder knowing that in less than twenty-four hours I won’t just be able to get in bed and go to sleep like I can now.” 

You kiss his shoulder next to your hand. 

“I know I ought to be taking advantage, but it’s like knowing the meal you’re about to have is your last one for a while. You want to try and savor it, but you just can’t savor it enough. It almost feels pointless trying.” 

“You’ll sleep again soon,” you promise him. “You don’t have to savor it, lovely, you just have to do what makes you happy for right now. So what do you want tonight? Do you want to try to sleep, or should we just stay up?” 

Remus makes a half-amused exhaling sound. “Are you trying to use reverse psychology on me?” 

“No.” 

“That’s exactly what they tell insomniacs; to try staying up so they fall asleep.” 

“Well, if you want to fall asleep, maybe that’ll work.” You turn your head so that your cheek rests against his shoulder. Remus’ hair is long enough that the tip of a strand tickles the end of your nose. “But we could also just stay up and actually stay up.” 

“I’m not making you stay awake all night for me.” 

“Remus…” There’s a plea in your voice. Remus knows your tones better than anyone; he obliges you, rolling over. 

Your arm uncoils from his waist in the process, and you lift both hands to his cheeks. Tears make his skin slippery, your thumbs skipping over the deep and shallow grooves of various scars. Evidence of your twenty-something boyfriend’s life sentence. 

“Don’t be silly,” you tell him, hearing the transparent adoration in your own voice. “I’d love to be awake with you.” 

Remus’ eyes are shiny dark in the moonlight. “Really?” 

You hum. Your eyelids are heavy, yes, but this is a man who went to four different corner stores to find the flavor of ice cream you requested on your period; when you only first started dating, you called Remus in the middle of the night because your car had broken down, and he drove forty minutes to come get you; he once spent an entire afternoon on the phone with your mother learning how to make your favorite dish just because you said you missed it.

“I’ll make tea,” you say, “and there should still be some chocolate in the cupboard, yeah? I’ll go out to replenish our supply in the morning.” 

“God,” Remus sighs, putting his forehead to yours. “I really love you. I’m sorry about all this.” 

You make a soft, disapproving sound. “About what, honey? You can’t help it.” 

“Well, I only hope I haven’t won your pity through tears.” 

“Oh, come off it.” You press your lips to his, smiling. Remus hugs you closer, and you roll into his lap, using your leverage to sit the both of you up. “Are you going to put the kettle on, or am I?”

[obsob]

the uk's supreme court ruling is just the most insane thing ever these people are freaks. not ONCE in any of the bbc articles do they mention at all what they actually mean by 'biological sex' but im guessing they mean pussy . so . u want my big muscular hairy 100% 'passing' ftm bf in ur changing room?? in ur bathrooms?? would that make u feel comfy and safe??????? like they constantly leave out trans men of this argument most likely bc they know what adding them in completely dissolves their entire argument its so funny

and these arguments and "facts" are just not based in any sort of reality at all . like . what? all trans women are actually men and the reason why theyre doing all that is so they can infiltrate womens spaces to assault them? tfw ur a man and u want to assault a women but th door she went through has a little stick figure in a dress on it so u go 'damn' and walk away sadly. like. GIRLS. completely not only just disregarding any statistics that prove this is not in fact happening, or at the very least not happening to the degree they act like it is, but also ignoring the fact completely that women are very capable of assaulting women!! like that happens!!! women are not these perfect untouchable always-the-victim creatures . they're just people!! and all people are capable of evil!! trans, cis or otherwise!! YES men are more likely to assault women than any other group of people, but that is not because they are men and were born with evil in their hearts, its because of the way boys are raised and how normalised misogyny is in our society!!!!! by making everything about biology u completely disregard this fact, which both removes blame from the men who do assault women AND does nothing to help solve the social issues which cause this to happen in the first place!!! girls you are so weird!!!!!!!!

FUTHERMORE! im sorry but if u have intense trauma so bad that you cant spend any amount of time in the presence of man, that is ur problem to heal. you cannot expect the world to mold itself around YOUR trauma and triggers. it is your responsibility to keep yourself safe. just because u dont like something or something makes u uncomfy it doesnt give you the right to just campaign it out of existence sorry !

all my lovely uk trans women ESPECIALLYYYY my poc trans women i love you so so much you deserve the everything and the world is better and brighter with you in it!! one day everyone will see that and it will be a kinder existence for everyone because of it <33333 i love u so so much everything will be okay one day bc we will make it okay i prommy

[ohhowjooniewept]

friendship group jungkook x y/n

fluff, angst, filthy smut

10k<

——

having a big friendship group was something that most people couldn’t understand. the dynamics between each and every person were important, like a well oiled machine that churned out a mixture of jokes and joy.

you had been friends with namjoon and yoongi for years, meeting taehyung, yejin and jin in your first year of university. yoongi introduced hoseok, who in turn introduced jimin, who of course, introduced jungkook.

you were incredibly close to them all, with the exception of the bambi eyed boy, who for some reason, you just couldn’t crack. it wasn’t that you didn’t get along, on the contrary - you were the most alike and he was always extremely kind towards you. it had been years and years since you first met, and you were able to have small conversations but there was an air of tension that followed you both that neither of you understood. well, you pretended not to anyway.

it was a secret to no one, except jungkook, that you were head over heels in love with him. yoongi would groan every time he’d see the starry look in your eyes once the conversation shifted towards the younger man, with yejin and jimin giggling like their lives depended on it.

“you should just get married and leave the rest of us to finally recover from your rambles.” he grumbled, once, laid out on your sofa with biscuit crumbs on his chest.

you rolled your eyes at him, frowning. “shut up yoongi, that would require him to actually like me back.”

he groaned so loudly that you found yourself grabbing the nearest pillow and plowing it into his face. “god, you’re both such idiots.” he muttered with a shake of his head.

———

jungkook had an aura around him that most described as electrifying. he knew he could walk into any room and make a friend, or have eyes stay on him for the duration of the night - he knew he had presence and it was something he enjoyed.

one thing he didn’t know, however, was how to tell the girl he had been in love with for multiple years, his feelings. add the fact that she was also in his friendship group, he knew he was utterly hopeless.

years of knowing and seeing one another weekly, but he still struggled to hold a 10 minute conversation between you both. between stuttering words and clenched jaws - he could speak to everyone else in the room as though it was a god given talent, but you? for you, he was hopeless.

every girlfriend, every fling and every message in his inbox was a way to rid himself of you, but you plagued his thoughts and every inch of his desires.

———

“right, why are you saying this to me again?” jin questioned as he cooked.

the entire group were at namjoon’s house to celebrate his new promotion, with bottles of wine sitting in the fridge and laughter heartily coming from the living room.

“jin, please.” jungkook groaned, leaning on the counter beside him. “yoongi won’t listen to me anymore. says i talk too much.

jin looked straight at him. “you do.”

“what? this is the first time i’m opening up about this to you.”

jin looked over again, more pointed. “first time this week.”

jungkook groaned once more, overgrown pout on his face as he rubbed over his eyes.

“listen.” jin began. “you can walk, or in your case run, in circles all you want. why can’t you just be honest with her, tell her how you feel?”

“i can’t even have a conversation with her without feeling like i’m going to pass out.”

yejin walked into the kitchen, hair messy and lipstick smudged from the wine she had been drinking. her eyes fell on the pout on jungkook’s face before giggling.

“let me guess, yoongi won’t let you confess to him anymore, now you’re terrorising jin?”

“bingo.” the older man grinned.

jungkook frowned. “is this just a running gag, now?”

“hard to feel sorry for you when you’re the reason for your own problems, kook.” yejin slid next to jin, moaning over the scent of multiple little dishes. “i mean, have you tried asking her out? even platonically? have you guys ever purposefully been alone with each other?”

jungkook’s frown deepened, he hated being friends with intellectuals. stupid yejin, stupid namjoon, jin and yoongi. the rest weren’t to be trusted with this knowledge; they’d blab to you in a heartbeat. little did you know, you had taken them for yourself. they were yours informants, sworn to secrecy.

“well, i guess not but…i don’t think she’d be entirely comfortable with just me.” he confessed. “she gets shy and quiet when i speak to her. she doesn’t laugh or joke the same as when she’s with all of us.”

the two looked over at the tall boy, eyes brows furrowed. they then turned to look at one another, both shaking their head. “god, why did you curse us with idiots for friends.” yejin grumbled, allowing jin to feed her ahead of everyone.

“you guys are mean.” jungkook grumbled. “at least yoongi pretends to be nice at first.”

with a roll of jin’s eyes, he handed him a few plates before shoo’ing him away, yejin following with her hands full. in the living room, you were stood by the tv, glass in hand, giggling away as you watched yoongi and taehyung battle it out on mario cart. the former was grunting and yelling, uncharacteristically, whilst the latter grinned wide as he won another round.

“you’re getting old.” tae smirked.

yoongi gave him a glare, before standing up to help yejin put her plates down. “you don’t get hit enough for my liking.”

the wine was beginning to make your brain hazy, and you felt slightly tipsy. it was no secret that you were the lightweight of the group, which was why you were on a strict one glass policy whenever you were with your group.

the living room table was set, adorned with finger food and a bowl of larger dishes, everyone tucking in. jungkook took a seat on the coach on the left, leaving a space beside him before his eyes flickered up to you, hovering over the table behind hobi, waiting to be given a plate. his eyes stayed trained to your face, a reddish flush evident on your cheeks that made his heart beat painfully. fuck, you were so pretty.

“okay. this weekend, what are we doing?” yejin clapped, as you began filling your plate. “you know i love pigging out with you guys, but we should celebrate joonie properly. you’ve really been waiting for this for so long.”

the dimpled boy grinned, blushing slightly. “i’m happy to do whatever, this is enough for me.”

“boring.” jimin groaned, shaking his head. “we need to go out.”

your eyes brushed over the seating arrangement, noticing the only free spot was between yejin and jungkook, the latter already staring up at you with too large eyes and parted lips. you wanted to scream, the little girl in you clawing her way through your body at the thought of sitting next to your crush.

with a tinge in your cheeks, you made your way over, wobbling slightly as you began to sit down. jungkook’s reflexes were fast, one hand on your thigh and the other taking control of your wine, letting you sit down comfortably.

his touch didn’t register with your brain immediately, but once you sat down and looked, noticing his hand remaining on your thigh whilst he looked up to join in on the conversation with the others, your brain began to short circuit. he was touching you. his hand. on your thigh. touching.

you had never noticed how big his hands were until now, your eyes flickering over every inch and knuckle, core clenching and mouth watering. you wanted him in a way that was neither healthy nor acceptable, but right now, who could blame you?

jungkook wasn’t fairing any better. his heart was beating so loudly, he swore he could feel it in his throat. he hadn’t even thought before touching you, it felt like second nature and once his hand found home on your thigh, he simply couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

you both sat, tense and head swirling, his hand firmly where it belonged.

“what do you think y/n, you down?” yejin murmured next to her, bumping her shoulder.

“down..” you cleared your throat, fixing your position. “down for what, sorry?”

her eyes flickered down, before meeting your gaze with an all knowing smirk. “the new club downtown on saturday.”

“isn’t it kinda expensive? i hear the drinks are pricey.” you cringed.

jimin scoffed. “with a face like yours, you won’t be spending a penny, don’t you worry.”

you exchanged giggles, the group going back to exchanging conversations as you all drank. the wine was getting to you, so much so, you hardly noticed jungkook’s hand flexing on your thigh, gripping tighter and higher.

——

saturday had finally come and you went all out. everyone was dressed nicely, excited to go christen a new club, the electricity palpable and running through you. you knew you looked good tonight, you had gone the extra mile - sleek hair and dress both tight and perhaps too short. your heels made your legs look longer than usual and your makeup sultry - you had one single goal tonight. jungkook.

you were sick of this cat and mouse game. you liked him. maybe a lot more than like, but regardless, you were going to get a few shots in you, tell him how you feel whilst you felt confident, and then get black out drunk so you wouldn’t remember it tomorrow. solid plan.

unfortunately, said plan meant nothing once your eyes fell on him.

broad shoulders and piercings catching the light of the club, drink in hand as his t shirt stretched across his chest. every plan, thought and idea fluttered away from your head, leaving a hollow echo chamber in which all you could hear was a repeat of his name.

he turned to look around, noticing you walking towards the group with hugs and greetings. he blinked once or twice, before turning around and openly groaning. fuck.

“yeah, yeah. pack it up lover boy.” yoongi scoffed, before you walked over to give him a hug too.

jungkook spun again, meeting your gaze as you shyly reached over to hug him as per usual. he never let you get far, always closing the distance himself and wrapping his arms around you as he held you tightly.

“hm. you smell good.” he murmured next to your ear, leaving a shiver down your spine.

“is that it?” you cheekily asked, eyebrow raised.

he smirked wide and broad. “you look good. better than good.”

you grinned up at him before letting him go. he, however, let his arm rest loosely around your waist as you turned to the group, gushing with yejin about how good she looked. you tried to ignore how badly your heart was thumping, he was never this bold - sure he could be touchy but that was jungkook, he practically resided on namjoon’s lap. this felt different, but you couldn’t bare yourself to get your hopes up.

his eyes flickered downwards, observing you and wracking over your body. you looked better than ever, and it both excited and angered him. he knew he’d have to have his wits about him tonight, if a man even approached you, he was sure he’d combust.

“okay, drinks!” taehyung exclaimed over the music, clapping his hands.

you and yejin took a seat at the table whilst the boys filtered down to the bar, the loss of jungkook’s arm both palpable and healing to your racing brain.

your eyes travelled to across the club, where your boys stood, jungkook ignoring evident glances and women sauntering over to him. you couldn’t help the grimace.

“you’re too pretty to frown.” yejin cooed, moving your chin so you were facing her. “especially over a boy.”

you blushed. “wish he wasn’t so handsome, can’t believe everyone sees what i see.”

“ah,” she grinned wickedly. “funny. you’ve had guys trailing you and watching you from the second you walked in, and believe me, he’s not happy.”

your eyes widened at her comment, eyes flickering to jungkook again, who’s gaze was already on you. you broke the contact, embarrassed before turning to her properly.

“enough jungkook talk, what’s on the agenda tonight? what is yeji doing?” you asked, hands in hers.

“i’m not leaving empty handed.” she wiggled her eyebrows, causing a fit of laughter that remained as the boys came back, looking at you both inquisitively.

yoongi reached over to hand you your drink, to which you thanked him gently, sipping slowly.

you felt the seat beside you dip, focused on your conversation with the boy and girl beside you, until you felt a warm hand press against your bare thigh. yejin and yoongi continued, unaware, as your head turned to face the tatted boy beside you, who drank his drink as though this was the most casual thing he had ever done. the thump in his chest argued otherwise.

you were sure your cheeks were flaming red, and your thigh began to tremble beneath his touch. you wanted him to go higher whilst also let go, you were sure your brain would wither away soon with how hazy you felt.

“like your drink?” he asked, suddenly getting closer to you so you could hear him over the music.

“mm, fruity.” you nodded, eyes never leaving his.

he grinned. “hm.” his hand flexed on your thigh. “have i told you how good you look, tonight?”

“only once.” you guys were flirting. the little girl inside your body was screaming so loudly.

he tutted, shaking his head as his grip tightened. “my bad, baby. you look stunning.” he whispered intimately into your ear. “love this little dress, new hm? would have remembered if you’d worn it before.”

all you could do is nod, as he pulled away slightly from your ear, your faces much too close to be deemed appropriate. just a little closer, he thought, eyes flickering down to your lips. just a little curve to your head and he’d take care of your tiny pout, he was sure.

before you could continue, however. “y/nnie, come on.” jimin shouted, from across the booth as he got up, forcing you to yank away from jungkook with wide eyes and parted lips. your eyes looked up to the blonde haired boy, a smirk on his face. “time to dance.”

“jimin i’m not tipsy enough.” you groaned.

“take this shot.” namjoon pushed the drink over to you, yejin giggling beside you.

you picked it up, hands still shaky, and tipped it back, grimacing deeply whilst everyone laughed and whooped around you. you shook your head quickly, as to rid yourself of the taste, before he grabbed your arm, pulling you up from your seat and guiding you down. you grabbed yejin on the way, who waved excitedly at the rest of the boys, shouting something about actually having fun.

it wasn’t long until you guys were dancing away, giggling loudly and twirling with one another. jimin was the life of your group, whilst yejin was the soul - if you ever wanted to have fun, it had to involve the pair who only ever seeked out joy.

the alcohol was already rushing to your head, leaving you a tipsy mess. being the worlds biggest lightweight never helped when you wanted to get drunk because you knew in two drinks, you were completely finished, but it was always nice to get a buzz whilst you were out.

hobi and jin soon joined, with the former’s arms around you as you danced and sang together, fits of giggles being shared.

“i don’t think i’m going to survive tomorrow, my heads already so gone.” you shouted over at him, music thumping.

“yeah, me neither - your little boyfriend is about to kill me with his stare.” he giggled louder, throwing his head back.

your eyebrows furrowed before turning your head to the side, catching jungkook’s heavy gaze.

eyebrows furrowed and a dark expression on his face, you could see the clench of his jaw and it made your core whine. he was so pretty despite being evidently bothered. the thought, the idea, that he would be this way over hobi dancing with you sent a million electricity volts through your body, your eyes never leaving his.

“we spoil him too much, now we can’t even dance with you without him planning our murder.”

you broke eye contact, looking at hobi with an excited thrill. “i want him so bad.” you groaned quietly, head falling to his shoulder.

“believe me. you could have him.”

——

the night was going strong, and you had slowed down with the drinks and paced yourself appropriately to match your friends. taehyung wanted to smoke outside, so you accompanied him.

you and jungkook had been playing a fine line all night, dancing around the tension, eye contact and fleeting touches but never anything more. it was driving you insane, you knew that maybe he wanted you in some way but if it wasn’t the way you wanted, then you couldn’t have him. you wouldn’t be able to move on and it wasn’t fair.

you both stood outside, taehyung taking out a cigarette whilst the wind nipped at your too warm skin, offering some calm to the night.

“fuck. forgot my lighter, i’ll be two seconds alright?” he groaned with a tip of his head making you nod, resting your head against the wall of the smoking shelter.

you watched him retreat, closing your eyes for a few moments before you heard a shuffling of feet behind you. your eyebrows furrowed, thinking nothing of it until a large hand gripped your hip, twirling you around to face them.

your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. why was he here? how could he be here? touching you so casually and without thought; hand bruising your hip with every passing second as he approached you with nothing but clear disrespect.

“missed me?” jaehyun, your ex, grinned down at you, lowering his head to meet your height.

your ex of two years, who had terrorised you to an inch of your life stood before you, hands on your body as though it was his every right. your relationship with him had been turbulent to say the least.

it had started once you decided you couldn’t see jungkook kissing another girl at a random party, you felt sick and you’d had enough, you were finally moving on from the schoolgirl crush you had on him. you met jaehyun and he was seemingly perfect at ridding you of jungkook’s lasting touch on your heart, until he suddenly wasn’t.

he’d get angry whenever you went out with your friends, despite knowing them and understanding the years long dynamic you all shared. the mere mention of namjoon, hoseok and jimin were enough to drive him into a rage that left you shaking all night, only for him to appear the next morning with flowers and empty promises that it would never happen again.

you’d once mentioned jungkook in a passing, harmless comment and had to nurse your face for the next two weeks as payment. he was violent regarding any man, but it was the bright eyed boy that set him off the most.

it only escalated, but by that point, you felt entirely trapped. it wasn’t until yejin had come over after months of silence on your part, and broke down at the sight of you. you’d never forget the way she wailed whilst examining the bruises on your arms and chest, holding you like a baby before packing your bags and taking you from your shared apartment with him.

you don’t remember what happened after that, it was traumatic and it had taken a year of therapy to even consider unpacking it properly. you remembered being sat with the boys, yejin holding you tight whilst they all promised to keep you safe. you’d spend a night at each of their homes in rotation for months and months, at the fear of night terrors and something worse.

the nights you’d stay with jungkook were the calmest, the scent of him imbedded deep into his home enough to lull you to sleep as he snored in the living room. your friends had supported you to an inch of your life, built up your confidence and protected you. you were no longer the meek girl jaehyun had forced you to be, you stood straight and you spoke clearly - but the sight of him; the feel of him, broke you out of it immediately.

“get off of me.” you shakily whispered, hand grabbing the hand on your hip and pushing it away with all your might, forcing yourself to step away. “you don’t get to touch me.”

his eyes darkened, the patronising grin falling from his face immediately. “you know, i thought i taught you better than that. made sure not to let you talk back, remember?”

his words made you flinch, clearly referring to the times he would plow a fist into you if you ever spoke up even remotely. you began inching backwards, throat bobbing and hands shaking.

“and that dress? so short, it’s like you’re begging for my attention. two years later and still acting like a slut, y/n?” his face contorted, as though even looking at you made him angry. “used to be such a good girl. used to fucking listen.”

“don’t speak to me. you’re..you’re not allowed to come near me.” you wheezed out as your hands shook and your stomach twisted, the horrible feeling of anxiety and fear beginning to take over you. yejin had helped you file a restraining order. he wasn’t allowed to do this to you.

“yeah? and who’s going to fucking stop me.” he growled, hand grabbing your arm tightly making you welp whilst his other pulled you forward to his chest. “fucking bitch. i’ll take you home, hm? teach you a lesson, teach you what you should have remembered.”

you couldn’t breathe. couldn’t think. eyes closing and body shaking. his hand began gripping your face tightly, spouting abuse at you as your brain completely slipped away, shutting yourself down as trauma gripped the edges like a vice.

suddenly, you felt his touch completely leave you, forcing you to open them up again to find jaehyun on the floor, jungkook pounding his fists into his face. you could see taehyung shouting something, namjoon pulling you away and hobi running back inside where the others remained, no doubt to bring them to you.

you couldn’t think, your brain disassociating as your body trembled, prints of jaehyun’s hands all over your body. were you crying? tears were streaming down your face and you weren’t even aware, trembling as namjoon took you to a quiet corner, worried beyond belief.

taehyung had rushed back to their table to get a lighter, when namjoon, hobi and himself agreed to step out too, needing a smoke and fresh air. within moments of being outside, his eyes had widened at the sight of your abusive ex attacking you. he’d never get used to the look of fear in your face that felt so constant years ago, but seeing it back was enough to make him see red.

he wasn’t thinking, grabbing the man and plowing his fists into his face, watching him fall back. he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, only doing so once both yoongi and jimin had managed to get him off, watching as jaehyun scurried away as fast as he could, despite bleeding heavily from his face.

turning around, seeing you sat with your eyes unmoving and tears streaming, he wanted to chase the fucker and do it again. his baby, his girl - how could he do this to you? how could he look at you and not see anything other than stars and moon?

“y/nnie, can you hear me?” he cooed as yejin sobbed beside you, holding you tightly. the boys were all a nervous wreck, yoongi shaking angrily and the others trying to regain your attention.

after a few moments, your eyes began to focus. you met jungkook’s gaze first, your gaze flickering over him in a momentary lapse of confusion. “he’s gone, y/n. jungkook took care of it.” taehyung sniffled, crouched beside you.

a moment of silence was shared between you, the sounds of both yejin and tae filtering the air as the others ran their hands through their hair nervously.

“promise?” you asked, voice breaking making the tatted boy almost whine in sadness. “promise you, he won’t bother you again.”

you simply nodded. you hadn’t noticed how hard you were crying, with tears ruining your perfectly applied makeup and your chest heaving in what could only be fear. “i’m sorry joonie, was supposed to be your night.” you choked out.

the taller boy tutted over at you, pressing a kiss to your head. “don’t be silly, y/nnie.” he shook his head. “jungkook, why don’t you take her home? stay with her, yeah? think she’ll feel the best with you there.”

you hardly registered what was happening, feeling jungkook’s hands taking hold of yours as he helped you up. everyone took turns holding you for a second or two, ensuring personally that you were okay. yejin pressed kisses to your cheek through her own tears, promising you that you were safe and that nothing else would happen before crying further into jin’s chest. jungkook watched, almost helplessly as he waited for the uber to arrive, yoongi patting him on the back. it wasn’t long until he received the notification on his phone.

he looked at you now, as you sniffled and walked back over to him, his arms wrapping around you protectively as you all bid your goodbyes. you slid into the uber first, his arms cradling you as you shuffled into his shoulder, breathing in the same familiar scent that would soothe you.

after a while of silence, your eyebrows furrowed, taking in your surroundings. “this isn’t the way to my house.”

he looked down at you, your little hand on his. he pondered before holding it up to his mouth, pressing a little kiss to your fingers. “i know baby. taking you to mine.”

your heart was thumping again, watching him as he caressed your hands, kissing each fingertip so gently you wondered if he was kissing them at all. an act so intimate you wondered what it meant.

it wasn’t long until you arrived, mourning the loss of warmth jungkook’s body provided as he pulled you out gently, taking you inside.

you’d been here a million times before but you never tired of how warm it felt, how much it resembled each bit of him. you pulled off your heels, your height dropping significantly before shuffling to the bathroom, intent on taking your makeup off immediately.

the joys of having two skincare obsessed women in the group meant yejin and yourself kept these boys stocked, considering sleepovers were a norm. jungkook let you take your time, no words exchanged as he grabbed you a t shirt from his wardrobe, knowing how much you liked sleeping in them.

“kookie, can i shower?” you asked, quietly as you peeked your head out the bathroom.

“course you can, i got you the rose body wash that you like the other day too.” he grinned over at you, hands roaming his hair. he handed over the oversized tee you loved so much, heart skipping a beat as you gave him a soft smile. “you’re the best.” you muttered back, hearing a little chuckle from him.

you watched as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets before closing the door, your eyes screwed shut for a moment. so much had happened tonight, from feeling utterly helpless one second to so safe and warm in jungkook’s presence.

you showered relatively quickly, wanting no more than to sink into the plush mattress of his bed. “you hungry?” he asked once you came out, having showered himself in his other bathroom, dressed in a similar t shirt and plaid bottoms. he looked so cute.

“no, i’m okay.” he looked over with a small double take, drinking you in, soft skin and barely hidden legs. god, you drove him insane.

he nodded. “okay, wanna head to bed? it’s been a long night for you.” you shuffled in your spot before nodding.

he’d usually sleep on his couch whenever you were round, considering it was quite large and comfortable - of course, he didn’t want to intrude either. he had too much respect for you to ever think about imposing.

“will you..will you stay with me? tonight?” you whispered quietly, looking down as you asked.

he didn’t reply, simply began walking over to you and gently taking your hands in his, littering your smaller fingers with kisses like he did in the uber. your breath hitched as you met his gaze, watching as he nodded before leading you over to his bedroom, hand clasped over yours.

you let yourself be pulled by him, watching as he rounded the bed, knowing you preferred the side closest to the window, before getting in; watching you do the same. you both snuggled into the warmth of his covers, a groan leaving your lips.

he turned to look at you, as you did the same. he couldn’t handle how cute you looked, fresh faced and cuddled into his pillow. he wanted to protect you forever, have you sheltered from anything that didn’t wish even a semblance of joy.

“i’m sorry you got hurt, kookie.” you whispered, the little pout he loved so much forming. “i had no idea he was there and i just froze..i don’t know.”

he cooed at you, inching closer before slowly pulling you in by your waist so the space between you had disappeared. your hands moved to his chest without thinking, the urge coming naturally.

“don’t apologise, y/n. should have killed him for how he was speaking to you, i’m so sorry he did that.” his eyes shut tightly for a second, as though the memory pained him. “he’ll get what’s coming to him, i’ll make sure of it.”

you looked away, eyes falling to his neck and the rise and fall of his chest. “how do you feel?” he asked.

his hands moved to cup your face. you were both inching closer and closer without even realising it. “scared, honestly. i’ve been doing so good and now he’s reappeared.” you all but whimpered. “just wanna forget.”

“yeah?” he whispered, lifting your chin again to look at him, his forehead gently pressing against yours. “want me to help you forget, pretty girl?”

“please.” you nodded slowly, your eyes flickering to his lips whilst he did the same, the two of you dancing around the tension but tonight was enough.

he looked between your lips and eyes once more, before brushing his nose against yours. you tilted upwards before you felt a faint brush of his lips.

he pulled away, only slightly, looking at the way your eyes fluttered close, all resolve fluttering away from him before he properly pressed his lips to yours again.

kissing jungkook felt like coming home. consisting of passion and years of yearning, feeling like it had finally come to an end. all compiled into this single moment.

you pulled him closer, mouths interlocking as you shared a sweet embrace, his arms wrapping around your entire body before you began pulling away. the kiss was only brief, but its impact left you reeling.

“fuck.” he whispered. your eyes remained shut for a moment longer, opening them up to find a look of hope pulling at his fingers. “i’m going to kiss you again, okay y/n? but before i do that, we need to talk.”

you nodded, eyes focused on his lips before meeting his gaze. “okay. you go first.”

he nervously laughed, sitting up slightly and giving him a moment to get his bearings. he opened his mouth a few times, before closing it, unsure of where to start. “sorry, just hard you know? telling the girl you’re in love with that..you’re in love with her.” he rambled, scratching the back of his neck.

you could have sworn that the earth stopped spinning. you looked up at him, sitting up a little too fast, causing him to stop his rambled muttering before raising his eyebrows.

“what did you just say?” you all but whispered, eyes wide.

his mouth was gaping now, confusion littered on his face as though to question what had he actually said. once it dawned on him, his eyes matched the size of yours.

“oh…i mean i guess i said it. i..i get it if you don’t feel the same, i don’t want you to feel like you have to return the same feelings, you know?” he began again, this time much faster, the two of you completely sat up in bed. “but like can you blame me? loved you second i met you, y’know? always wanted to tell you but just get so shy around you, and you’re so pretty makes my brain shut down..”

whatever you had done in a past life, god bless. you were sure you would thank every god and every goddess for this very moment, your hands shaking as you grabbed his face, yanking it towards you and pressing your lips to his.

jungkook’s breath faltered for a second before realising what was happening. he wrapped his hands over your hips, careful not to touch the bruised skin your ex had caused, pulling you onto his lap immediately.

this kiss was unlike the other. though it shared the same passion and tension, this felt like a promise and declaration of love - a certainty that had waited to be confirmed for what felt like eons.

your mouths moved in unison, your fingers gripping into his hair as he brought you closer. he groaned into your mouth, your tongues moving together whilst you both pushed and pulled, yearning for more whilst every emotion ran through you. the feel of his piercing against your mouth felt cool; an odd feeling at first touch but quickly becoming something your brain felt addicted to.

he pulled away slowly for breath, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenching as he looked directly at you, nudging his nose with yours. “is that your way of telling me you like me?”

“i love you, you idiot.” you whispered back at him, the both of you resorting to pecks. “loved you for so long, can’t believe you haven’t told me until day.” he grinned at this, nudging your nose once more.

“yeah, you didn’t either.”

you rolled your eyes, playing with his hair from behind. “does this mean we can kiss all the time?” you asked, pecking him whilst excitedly bouncing in his lap.

he groaned loudly, hands flying to grab your waist carefully as you smothered his faces in excited kisses. “yeah, won’t ever keep my hands off of you again.”

jungkook, although elated, was fighting the demons that were currently erupting through his chest. you, in no more than his shirt and your underwear, bouncing in his lap, conveniently over his crotch where he was already fighting his growing hard on.

“fuck, y/n.” he groaned again, holding you down a little firmer, unaware that the action was now directly pushing your own core directly to his crotch. you let out a little noise, half moan half whimper; eyes connecting.

neither of you dared to move. the last thing he wanted to do was make you feel uncomfortable, especially after the night you had which is shy he began to pull you up, to rest you on your side of the bed again.

only, you placed your hands on his shoulders, pressing your core against his bulge firmly before rolling your hips experimentally. you couldn’t help the moan that left you, a noise leaving his lips that rivalled it.

“still…still wanna forget kookie, you’ll do that for me?” you asked, unable to stop your hips from moving in circles, not when it felt so good.

he nodded, as though in a trance, guiding your hips as he shuddered against you. “don’t want you to feel like i’m taking advantage, baby, you’ve had such a long night.” he whispered, though your actions never faltered.

sweet, sweet boy. you couldn’t believe this was happening, the man of your dreams, both your heart and brain no longer at odds but instead connected finally in matrimony. “wanted you for so long.” you breathed out with a shake of your head.

this was beyond anything he could imagine. with direct confirmation from you, he captured your lips once more, hands planted firmly on your waist as he dragged you up and down his clothed cock. you shared moans, quiet and unsure at first before you found yourself matching his movement, the two of you closer than ever in a way you had Both only dreamt of.

“fuck. we have to stop, or i’ll cum.” jungkook whined as he pulled away from your lips, arms entirely wrapping around your body as if to stop you, closing his eyes tightly. “and i plan to impress you, so..”

you panted, with both a slight nod and slight giggle before whimpering at the loss of pleasure. this only lasted a few more seconds before suddenly, you found yourself flipped, a squeal leaving you. jungkook hovered over you, peeling his shirt from his body before swooping down to catch your lips again.

you couldn’t help your wandering hands, fingers twitching over his naked chest. you had seen him shirtless before, notably when you had all gone to the beach, but the memory was seared into the crevice of your mind. feeling his skin so intimately was completely different.

your lips moved in unison before he broke away, whining at his own action as he pulled his t-shirt you wore. he looked at you for approval, to which you nodded before he pulled it up over your head.

jungkook groaned, loudly. the sight of your bare breasts were enough for him to go clinically insane, but the way you were looking up at him, eyes big and lips bruised. you would be the end of him.

“fuck, look at you. so pretty.” he reached for one of your breasts, listening to the quickening of your breath as he wrapped his mouth around one. biting, teasing and licking, he proceeded to leave honeyed marks on your skin, whilst your moans and squeaks egged him on.

he moved to your other, making sure to physically leave his claim over them with hickeys adorning your body. “need you, kook.” you whined, impatient.

the side of his mouth flickered up at the sound of your impatience, and as much as he wanted to ruin you immediately, he had waited too long for this to just end up rushing.

“need to prep you first, hm? gonna be patient for me?” he cooed as his hands continued cupping your breasts. you nodded, eagerly, hands locking into his hair as he gave them one last kiss before easing down your body, trailing kisses from your stomach to your hips. he kissed over the bruised skin jaehyun had caused, making your heart clench for a moment.

the boy you loved, with wild eyes and bruised lips, searing love into every crevice of skin he could reach, ridding you of the pain that disgusting man had placed on you. he was freeing you with every touch, with every promise hidden behind passionate touches, you felt so safe.

he parted your legs, eyes flickering up to meet yours. he grabbed the hem of your underwear, sliding it down so that he was met with your core, a noise of pure defeat leaving him at the sight of you. wet and clenching for him, yearning for his touch just as much as he yearned to taste you. “all for me, baby?”

you nodded, as he parted your legs further despite how suddenly shy you felt. he dipped his head, planting a chaste kiss to your clit, watching as your body jolted. with a smirk, he dove in.

he couldn’t help the noises that were leaving him as he sucked and licked, intoxicated by your taste. “taste so good, y/n.” he’d moan in between your legs. “could die here.” he’d add. “addicted to you.” he’d all but growl.

you couldn’t help the moans, you’d never felt like this before. sure you’d been eaten out before, but never by a man who acted like this was his last starving meal. jungkook hoisted your legs wider, as your hips lifted, your hands tight against his scalp.

“need to stretch you, fuck. need to make sure i fit, hm?” he teased, eyes connecting with yours as one of his tatted fingers teased your entrance whilst sucking on your clit. you hated the thought of any woman before you in his life, but you thanked every higher power above that he knew what he was doing, feeling your high in your stomach already.

he instered a finger, pumping at a pace that had your toes curling. the whines that were leaving you made him dizzy, he wanted more. it wasn’t long before he inserted another, beginning to thrust them in unison whilst you chanted his name.

he groaned at the sight of you lifting your hips, desperate to reach your high. he had no idea he was grinding into the bed, chasing a high of his own as he watched you quiver and moan. “so tight, y/n, can’t wait to feel you on my cock. hm? won’t be able to think once you’re being fucked right, baby.”

you nodded, head empty and hands shaking. “w-want it, kookie, want it so bad.”

his fingers quickened, getting rougher and going harder as he sucked on your clit. he could feel you getting restless, knew you were on the edge from the way you were pushing his head closer without even realising. he could feel his sick obsession in his brain growing rapidly knowing you wanted him just as much, it felt like nothing else mattered than making you good.

“jungkook.” you let out a high pitched squeal, feeling your high rapidly approaching before your legs began to shake, and hips began to raise. your high ran through you like a shot of electricity, as your moans grew higher, his fingers pumped faster and his hand pressed down onto your stomach, forcing you to feel every inch of your orgasm.

he parted from you after you began quivering from overstimulation, plopping his fingers into his mouth to memorise your addicting taste. he hovered over you once more, the tent in his bottoms too large for you to ignore.

“i hate that you’re so good at that.” you panted, unable to meet his eyes as your focused on his bulge. he smirked, watching you, placing your smaller hand onto it so you could feel him fully. “i’m all yours now baby. gonna eat you out every chance you give me.”

your eyes met, a shared grin forming between you both before you pulled him in sharply for a kiss. hot and heavy, you could taste yourself on him which drove you insane - you reached for his pyjama bottoms, pushing them down almost desperately.

parting from him, with hooded eyes, you looked down at his cock. so big and thick, prettier than any you’d ever seen before you let out the cutest moan. he swore he could die happy. “how are you this perfect, and you have a pretty dick?”

“are you trying to inflate my ego? it’s working. i’ll get that tatted on my chest, don’t play.”

you giggled up at him before pumping him, both hands moving up and down as you sighed. “want you inside me, kookie.” you peered up. “don’t make me wait anymore.”

he pressed one last kiss to you, groaning at the feel of your hands around his already sensitive member. he parted your legs, one peek at your messy core enough to drive him insane before he began rubbing the head over you.

“don’t think you’ll fit.” you whimpered, the feel of him all encompassing.

“i’ll make it fit, was born for you baby.” jungkook promised, as he began pushing his cock in, your core instantly clenching around him. he began slowly, until he was fully inside, pelvis to pelvis, eyes fluttering shut.

you’d never felt so full in your life, the stretch both delicious and overwhelming. your fingers clawed at his large biceps, whimpers and quivers filling in the air as he held you tightly, whispering sweet nothings about how good you were for him, how incredible you felt. once you gave him the green light, he began thrusting.

he couldn’t believe this is what he was missing out on. he couldn’t believe how tightly and warmly you felt around him, felt like he was finally coming home.

his hips snapped against yours slowly, letting you feel every inch as your moans got louder and louder. “faster, kook.” you begged, though you knew you never had to, he’d give you the world.

“fuck, fuck, fuck.” he chanted, his pace changing as he began to thrust faster per your request, pressing his head against yours. “feel so good, my y/n, my girl.”

you clenched around him over his words making him airily chuckle, thrusting harder at that. “yeah, like that? like me calling you my girl?”

“yeah, wanna be yours jungkook.” you whimpered back, legs reaching up to wrap around his waist as he began to thrust deeper.

the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air and he knew his neighbours would be furious tomorrow, but could hardly begin to care. “you are, hm? was always my girl, you’re all mine and i’m all yours.” he promised, biceps flexing beside your face. “won’t ever let you go.”

you mewled loudly, hands finding home in his hair as you pulled against the strands. “feel so full.”

“yeah? pussy loves it baby, loves taking it.” he growled back, head hiding in your neck, leaving hickeys.

you could already feel your high approaching, but you couldn’t bare for this to end yet, lightly pushing his chest. he immediately pulled himself up and stopped thrusting, looking down at you with furrowed eyes. “wanna ride you.” you whimpered to which he threw his head back in what could only be a pathetic groan.

“you’re going to kill me, y/n.”

soon, your positions had changed and you were slipping him back inside, the two of you moaning loudly at the feel of one another in such a deeply intimate way. he felt so much bigger like this, and the feeling of fullness for you and your heat for him were enough to drive you mad.

he watched as you began to bounce, body contorting at the feeling of pleasure running through you. this was the hottest sight he had ever seen, your hands pressed against his chest to stabilise yourself.

“fuck yourself on my cock, that’s it.” he cooed, hands grabbing onto your ass before landing a harsh spank, to which you mewled and rode faster. you had no idea to what extent you were driving him crazy.

he watched as you rose, hands now held behind yourself as you practically used him to get off. the sight was severed into his brain forever, with his fingers rubbing your clit to bring you closer to your high. “already so close, feels too good.” you moaned.

music to his ears, jungkook thought. you were getting tighter and tighter, no doubt nearing your second high but he couldn’t bring himself to lay back anymore. he grabbed your ass again, before bouncing you up and down himself, your moans getting expeditiously louder.

“jungkook!” you squealed, feeling his cock fuck you in a way no one had ever managed to. you were addicted, you had no idea how you were ever suppose to live again after this, after experiencing heaven.

“fuck baby, can feel you getting close hm? wanna cum with me, wanna cum on my cock?” he cooed at you, switching your positions again. you were now on your side, one leg on his shoulder whilst he hovered over you, pounding roughly whilst rubbing your clit.

you chanted yes over and over, his free hand holding your own as he could feel his own high approaching. with the final rub to your clit, your breath stitched as your orgasm rushed through every inch of you, shaking your body beneath him.

the sight alone was enough to bring him to his own high, giving you one last sloppy thrust before cumming, his fingers on your clit not letting up as he chased you through your high, your moans twisting into one another.

his fingers fell, alongside your leg on his shoulder leaving you both a shuddering mess. he immediately found home, his forehead touching yours whilst your breaths mingled, panting at one another.

you spent a few minutes just like that, getting your bearings before he slowly pulled out, groaning at the sight of his cum trailing out of you.

“you okay, did i go too hard?” he cooed at you, his hands reaching for your face as he planted sweet kisses over your cheeks.

“felt so good, kookie. felt perfect.” you whispered back, wrapping your arms around his neck immediately, pulling him down to properly meet you beside him.

he could hardly believe it. the love of his life, cuddling into him after a session of pure passion and lust. he was addicted to you; sure that no other drug would be as potent as you. completely ruined from the inside out.

you both stayed silent for a while, simply caressing and kissing each other. it felt so pure, so right that you felt ashamed knowing you hadn’t told him your feelings earlier. you had long forgotten everything that happened that night, your brain totally encompassed by the thought of him.

“i’m never going to live down the fact i should have confessed to you earlier.” he frowned at you. “we wasted so much time.”

to this, you giggled, holding him close. “we were idiots, but i guess this means we have to make up for it, right?”

jungkook grinned widely at your words, taking your hand in his and lightly kissing your fingertips. “firstly,” he began, sitting up slightly so that you could look at him properly. “i love you, love you so much i can’t breathe when i look at you.”

you took him in, a bashful smile forming. “secondly, know i didn’t properly ask but this makes you my girlfriend, right?” he asked, smiling wider as he watched you nod excitedly with a squeak. “not for long though, i’ll put a pretty ring on that finger in no time.”

your mouth fell open at his words, eyes widening. “jungkook, you can’t say that!” you giggled, evidently very giddy at his words. say more, your heart screamed.

“please, i’ve learnt my lesson y/n. not wasting any more time.” he teased back, the two of you embracing and sharing a sweet kiss.

this was everything you both had wanted and more, spending the rest of the night talking, embracing and perhaps dabbling in other pleasurable activities. soon, you both fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. home, at last.

——

“you owe me like 50.” namjoon grinned widely at jimin.

the group had walked into jungkook’s apartment, each bringing breakfast assortments and flowers for you to make sure you were alright. they had been so worried last night that they’d gone straight home, each of them unsure of what to do but all understanding that the safest place for you to be was with jungkook.

when jin had seen yoongi and examined the redness of his knuckles, he couldn’t help but grin, knowing full well the boy had probably paid jaehyun a little visit sometime in the night. neither party said anything, but an understanding was shared. you were the youngest of the group, and of course, they were incredibly protective.

what they didn’t, expect, however was to see you cuddled up in jungkook’s arms, the two of you snoring away, evidently naked considering the duvet was hardly doing anything for modesty. upon sight of this, they all silently cheered, filtering out into the living room.

“no way, you ALL owe me 80, i said they’d fuck, you guys just said they’d confess.” yejin chimed in with a grumble, prodding a figure into the taller man’s chest.

hobi couldn’t help his giggles as he began unpacking breakfast. “whatever, can we all just be glad that this ordeal is finally over?”

taehyung nodded. “no more y/n pining.”

“no more jungkook whining.” jin added.

“no more will they, won’t they.” namjoon grinned, grabbing a seat at jungkook’s kitchen table.

“no more does she lo-“ yejin began, before shutting her mouth immediately. all eyes furrowed, including hers, straining their ears to hear the sudden noises forming in the bedroom as their heads snapped, looking over.

a moan filtered out into the air to which everyone groaned, realising what had instead replaced it. “pack it up, lovebirds.” jin shouted loudly. “breakfast on the table in 5, i expect you out and showered.”

[halogenwarrior]

Prev tags are great! Would also like to add that when I see this so much as aromantic myself it makes me wonder "is this really unrealistic or are these people writing from experience and romance really is this shallow?" Probably the answer is that romance can be that shallow in real life (where you go "wow that person is pretty I'm in love I will devote my whole life to them now), it appears too much for it not to be some people's personal experience, but if it is it will rarely end well. So I'm fine with that kind of weird forced romance if the point of the story is that romance makes people stupid and get into shallow attractiveness-based "relationships" that lead to bad outcomes while society's elevating of romance as The Most Important Thing and Self-Evident makes people trust that shallow attraction as a guide to completely upending their lives instead of recognizing what's going on, the problem is when the story is also trying to sell you on that this is not shallow at all, it's true love and the most important thing in the world and they will be together forever and ever, while the actual writing shows otherwise and makes me worry about the author that this is what they think are the ingredients for a lasting relationship where both love each other for what they are as human beings.

a lot of stories treat romance like it makes the relationship between two characters self explanatory and to be honest it doesn’t

[enwoso]

silver lining | alessia russo x teen!reader x leah williamson

-> based on this request:)

grumpy masterlist

leah knew it was a bad idea.

scratch that. she knew alessia was going to think it was a bad idea.

but when her fourteen-year-old daughter came to her with your hopeful glimmer in your eye asking if she'd take you to get your belly button pierced — leah had found herself hesitating for all of less than ten seconds before muttering a probably irresponsible "yeah, alright."

leah never could learn to say no to you.

but that was the thing about you — you were impossible to say no to when you gave her the look. the same one your mum had mastered all those years ago when you were little, the same one that leah was yet to, ten years on.

and besides, leah could remember what it was like to be a teenager, how desperate she's been to do something, anything which made her feel a little more grown up.

so that was how the two of you found yourself standing outside the piercing studio. you, practically bouncing on your feet, a bundle of excitement wrapped in your hoodie which was far to big for you. but leah had to admit, she admired your confidence.

"you're sure about this right?" leah asked, shifting on her feet waiting to be seen by the lady on the desk.

you gave your mama a deadpan look, crossing your arms as if she just asked the most ridiculous question ever. "you're the one who said 'yeah alright'" 

leah sighed as she watched you quote her exact words, before humming, "that was before i thought about how i might actually die when your mum finds out."

you just grinned, "nah you won't die, she loves you too much to do that”

leah groaned, rubbing a hand over her hand. "and that's exactly the reason why i might die."

but there was no turning back now. you had done your research, picked a proper studio, and leah had already signed the consent form. you were in this together. and really, how bad could this be? It wasn't like you were getting a massive tattoo or something.

...okay, yeah, alessia was going to murder her.

—

by the time they got home, you were still high on adrenaline, lifting the hem of your hoodie every few seconds to admire the small silver barbell now in your belly button.

leah, on the other hand, was feeling increasingly queasy about the conversation she was going to have with a certain blonde.

you, in your infinite wisdom, had suggested you both just not tell alessia.

to which leah had responded, "oh yeah, because she definitely won't notice that the daughter she gave birth to suddenly has a hole in her stomach."

so, when you both walked through the front door, leah braced herself.

alessia was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, the scent of tomato sauce filling the air. she looked up when they entered, her sharp blue eyes scanning them. she never missed a beat.

her gaze narrowed. "why do you two look so guilty?"

you, traitor that you were, immediately took a step back. "i'm just gonna—"

"lovie." your mum's voice was sharp. yeah, you were in trouble. you froze mid-step.

leah sighed. "okay, so, funny story..." alessia's eyes snapped to her. "leah."

leah winced.

you, apparently deciding to just rip the band-aid off, lifted your hoodie to reveal the new piercing. "i got my belly button pierced!" you announced, as if it was the best news your mum was going to hear all year.

alessia's expression did something complicated—her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again, before she turned to leah, eyes blazing as she smacked her with the tea towel she was holding. "you took her?!"

"ok, ow" leah held up her hands in surrender. "okay... okay yes, and before you yell at me, she really wanted it, and it's not that bad, and i figured better with me than some sketchy place with her mates in a few years—"

"that's is not the point, leah!" alessia huffed, rubbing her temples. "we were supposed to talk about things like this!"

you, ever the opportunist, chimed in. "mum, i did try to talk about it. but you said 'no.'"

"because you're fourteen!" alessia shot back, quickly.

leah winced. "technically, she's nearly fifteen..."

alessia turned to her with a glare that could have melted steel "do not start." so leah wisely shut up. not wanting to spend the night in the dog house.

alessia exhaled sharply before fixing you with a firm look. "you know you have to clean it properly, right? no touching it with dirty hands, no swimming for a while, no—"

you nodded enthusiastically. "i know! i did all my research, and the lady gave me a care leaflet!" you grinned taking the leaflet out from the pocket in your hoodie.

alessia crossed her arms. "oh yeah? and what about football? what's your plan for training? you think you can just run around like normal with that?"

leah nearly laughed—she could see the exact moment you realised you had been waiting for that question. because you, in all your determinations, stubborn glory, had prepared for this. prepared for every outcome.

"actually," you said, pushing your shoulders back, "i already checked. the lady said, i just have to cover it with a proper bandage during training, and i can't do contact drills for a couple of weeks. plus, i'll be extra careful, and if anything starts feeling weird, i promise you, i'll tell you straight away. and i won't touch it with dirty hands, and i'll clean it every night, and i definitely won't let any of the girls at training try to poke at it—"

leah watched as your mum's frustration wavered, giving way to reluctant acceptance. she knew her wife—knew that despite the initial anger, alessia was already moving past it.

finally, alessia sighed, shaking her head. "you two are a nightmare, you know that."

you grinned. "yeah but you love us." alessia huffed. "unfortunately."

leah slung an arm around her wife, pressing a kiss to her temple. "you'll forgive me eventually, yeah?"

alessia groaned but didn't pull away as the undeniable smile arose on her lips. "yeah, yeah. just wait until she asks for a tattoo."

leah paled. you, on the other hand, lit up.

"...oh, for fuck's sake."

[cyripticchronicler]

How Could I Hate You?

Paring: James Potter x Fem!reader

Summary: You’ve hated James Potter for as long as you could remember. However, entering your last year as Head Girl and James as Head Boy, you’re forced to interact with the man you want nothing to do with. What are you supposed to do when you realise he’s not the egotistical jerk you made him out to be?

T/W: None

A/N: It's been way too long!! I've been more into writing poems lately, so I haven't had time for my lovely fan fictions. However, I sat in a forest and listened to the birds sing for a while today and finally gained enough inspiration to finish writing this fic I started a little while ago (this is also my longest fic yet, so go me). I hope everyone's doing well!!

Masterlist James Potter Masterlist

You absolutely hated James Potter. His egotistical smile grated at your nerves like no other, an unhappy frown pulling at your lips every time he was around. Paired with his unserious personality and sickly handsome face, you wanted nothing to do with the man. 

However, fate - or Hogwarts for that matter- had other ideas, and both you and James Potter became Head Boy and Head girl during your last year. 

James Potter barely knew anything about you. He vaguely remembers you during third year, the meek, quiet girl that accidentally fell victim to one of the Maruader’s prank’s, leaving you with half of your hair coloured pink. The half-assed apology you received was nothing compared to the judgmental and amused looks you received in the month it took for your hair to return to normal. 

The ever-loved James had planned to mention this story to break the ice between you both. He was so used to being loved by everyone that he couldn’t hide the disappointment on his face when you merely smiled at his story and kept walking. 

He was not one to give up. “You really did suit the pink,” He jokes, bright, eager eyes looking at you in hopes of seeing just a smidge of a smile. All he got was a fake laugh in return. 

You didn’t hold a grudge against him for the prank he did years ago, but still couldn’t get over the mere audacity this man possessed with each step he took and flirty comment he made. You look over at him from where he walks beside you, head down, hands in his robe pockets. Perhaps you were being too hard on the boy. He’s Head Boy, so he can’t be that bad- “You always take things so seriously, don’t you? It’s no surprise that you’re only friends with boring nerds.” He laughs, nudging your shoulder playfully. 

Ouch. Hurt stings your heart, and you attempt to shake it off. Your steps falter for a short moment, but long enough for James to notice. He frowns, worried that he’s hurt you. Before he can backtrack or apologise, you’re already ahead, speaking your first words of the night to a third-year roaming the corridors and ordering them to go back to their dorm. They roll their eyes but comply, and James feels it too late to apologise. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

“Don’t make me go,” You plead like a four-year-old, wrapping your arms around Dorcas’ right arm. She looks up from the book in her hands and attempts to shake you off, her voice laced with amusement. “You’re the one who wanted to be Head Girl. So go and fulfill your duties and patrol with the infamous James Potter.”

“He’s horrible, Dorcas,” You whine, falling down to the floor when she manages to shake you off, a low groan escaping your lips when you hit your head particularly hard. You know you’re being pathetic, but you’re allowed to be when you’re stuck walking with an egotistical teenage boy three nights a week.

“He’s the golden boy with a six-pack and a cute smile. Stop complaining and flirt!” A pillow is thrown at you to emphasise her words, and you groan once again. With a glare sent her way and a huff, you stand up from your spot on the carpeted floor, still staring at her as you dramatically open the door. 

“Don’t have too much fun!” You scoff, turning around to leave and running into the one person you really didn’t want to see. 

James Potter leans against the wall beside the door, a playful smirk playing on his stupidly handsome face. “Not too much fun, hey?” You resist the urge to pull his glasses off of his face and throw them to the floor. 

You hate that you can feel your cheeks start to heat, growing shy at the realisation that he heard what Dorcas said. Avoiding his eyes, you close the door behind you and rush down the steps, trying not to focus on the steps sounding behind you. 

It’s only when you exit the common room that he speaks again. “How are you?” He questions, ensuring his steps match with yours. “Fine.” You bluntly respond. At the awkward silence and the fact you can’t stand being impolite, you coldly ask, “How are you?”

He visibly perks up at your question, raising his head to look at you with his golden brown eyes and million-dollar smile. “I’m good! I’ve been practicing for the Quidditch match this weekend. Are you going to come?”

“No.” You state, folding your arms against your chest and looking ahead. Your shoes clatter against the stone steps, the cool night air hugging your skin. 

“You don’t have to feel bad about going alone. It will still be fun!” He smiles goofily, revealing more of his throat as he looks up at the stars. Your admiration is cut short when you process what he said. “Um…what?”

The way James’s eyes widened would have been almost comical if you weren’t so offended. “That sounds bad. You can bring people, obviously, but I just figured you’d go alone-“

“Do you think I have no friends or something?” You've stopped in the middle of the field, eyes narrowed in accusation. You dig your nails into your arm, focusing on the pain it creates instead of the pain his words inflict. 

“No! I mean - you're just always…y’know…by yourself.” He stumbles, hands raising in defence. Your tongue rolls against the inside of your cheek. “So now I’m a loner?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “No. No. Merlin, can you just listen to me?” At your silence, he continues, “I shouldn’t have assumed that you'd go alone, but can you blame me? You never go out, and I just figured that if you were to go out, you'd be by yourself.” 

The sound of crickets is the only thing that can be heard, an uncomfortable silence thick between you. You take a deep breath and turn your back to him, beginning to walk back to the castle. “I saw a movement in one of the potions classrooms, I’m going to check it out.”

“I’m sorry-“

“Don’t, James. Just don’t.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

James Potter’s eyes bore into yours from across the Great Hall, and you’ve never been so grateful for Miss McGonagall as she leads you around the room, pointing at areas in the room. “This year's theme for the yule ball is going to be Winter Wonderland. You and James have two months to decorate this entire hall. I want you two working together on making a wonderfully decorated ball…”

Her words are quickly drowned out by the discomfort bubbling in your stomach. James walks away from where he is, looking around to listen in to what Miss McGonagall is saying. It’s only when she walks away that you finally process your surroundings. “Looks like we’re going to have to spend a lot of time together.” He laughs uncomfortably. 

You guys haven’t spoken since that awkward night two days ago, and he’s unsure how to act around you. “I guess we will.” You lean against the wall behind you, sliding down and sitting on the cool floor with crossed legs. Taking out a pad of paper and some charcoal from your bag, you begin a quick sketch of the room. 

You’re surprised when James sits beside you, stomach fluttering with anxious butterflies. “What…are you doing?” 

He turns to look at you, dimples staring right at you. “You heard her, we’re doing this together.” He’s careful to keep a good distance, and you keep your head down, eyes on the paper in front of you. “I’m just doing a quick sketch.” 

He taps the paper gently. “It’s very good. Do you draw often?” You ignore his attempts at making conversation and instead begin a hopefully short conversation about the decorations. “I was thinking we could have white roses in the middle of each table and maybe this tree archway.” 

He sighs at the change of conversation. “Listen, about the other day-”

“James, we really don’t need to talk about it. I don’t like you, but I can remain professional, and that’s all that matters.” At the defeated, almost frustrated look in his eyes, you can’t help but scoff. “What? Can’t you handle the thought that someone doesn’t like you? As much as people say you are, you’re not all that.” You abruptly stand up and begin walking out the hall, poison lacing your voice, “I’ll send you the list of ideas I have for the ball, and you do the same. We can talk about it more next time you’re free.”

You’re already out of the room before he can utter a word. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

Despite the cruel words you uttered the last time you saw each other, James Potter shows up to your library get-together with a bright smile on his face. “Hello, love. I brought you a cupcake. Red velvet.” He places it on the table in front of you, and you shift your attention from your book to the small, delicious treat. 

“You’re late,” You mutter grumbly. Despite your angry mood, you still slowly grab the cupcake, immediately bringing it to your mouth, unable to resist taking a bite. “I’m sorry. I’m a busy man, y’know?” 

“I’m busy, too, James. We only have ten minutes to go over everything before I have to help this group of first-year students with Potions.” You scowl, rolling your eyes and continuing to eat the cupcake. 

He ignores your words and instead grabs the book you were reading in front of you. “This is a muggle book, is it not? I’ve seen my friend Remus reading this.” You yank the book back and carefully put it into your bag. “Yes, he’s the one who recommended it to me.”

In hopes of reducing personal conversation, you jump straight into talking about the ball. “Now, about the ball. I’ve given the list of things we need to Miss McGonagall. The stuff should arrive next week Monday. We need to figure out what days we’re free to decorate.” You fiddle with the cupcake wrapper, looking down at his ruffled robes rather than his eyes. 

“I’m busy on Saturdays for Quiddich practice, and I’m going to a party on Friday.” He smiles, unbothered by your quiet, grumpy mood. 

“Okay, we can do Sundays and Tuesdays after school. Now, because you showed up so damn late I have to go and we’re going to have to meet again so let me know when you’re free.” He follows you when you stand up, gently grabbing hold of your arm before you can leave. 

He forces you to stare into his eyes, and you’re surprised at the pure sincerity in them. “I’m sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.”

You take a deep breath, overwhelmed with confusion at the fact he apologised. “Okay. I forgive you. Don’t let it happen again, please.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t let go of your arm like you expected, instead, he holds it tighter. “Are you free Friday night? Come to the party with me.”

“I’m not free Friday. I have a date.” 

“A date?” His voice is deep, unfamiliar. You nod awkwardly and pull your arm from his grip. “Yeah, I’m not actually a loner, James.” You laugh awkwardly before walking away. 

You leave him standing there, gaping at your retreating figure.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

You can hear James before you can see him. His loud, heavy footsteps, matched with his obnoxious laugh, is enough to warn you about his presence.

You keep your focus on the task at hand, moving your wand up as you attach decor to the roof. He’s unfazed by your cool attitude, playfully nudging your shoulder. 

“So…” his voice grates at your nerves more than usual, “how’d  your date go?”

Right. The date. The reason for your extra pissy mood this morning. “It was fine.” You hoped he would get the hint that you didn’t want to talk about it, but James couldn’t take a sign if it smacked him in the face.

“Just fine? Tell me about it,” he pestered, gently poking your side, the hand holding your wand falters, the decoration almost falling to the floor. You give up on your task, glaring and beginning to walk away.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Cmonnnn,” his voice raises a pitch and you scowl, “tell me how it went.” He goes to grab your arm, and you move back. You scoff. “I don't want to talk about it.”

His brown, usually playful eyes turn serious in an instant. A crease formed between his brows, and a frown that didn’t suit his usually happy face painted his lips. “Did he do something?”

At the concern and genuine curiosity in his voice, you can’t help but let your shoulders fall, keeping your head down as you whisper, “he didn’t even show.” 

“Oh.” Pink tints your cheeks, and shame curls your spine. “Wel,l it’s his loss. I’m sure he would have had a blast if he went”

You clear your throat and begin sorting through boxes, trying to ignore the lump in your chest. “Yeah, I guess.” He moves to stand next to you, shoulders almost brushing while he sorts things next to you. 

“I mean it.” He turns his head to look at you, and you look back, captured by those swirling brown eyes. “Any guy would be lucky to go on a date with you.”

A shaky breath leaves your parted lips, and you're unsure why his words have such an impact on you. Maybe it’s the way his eyes never broke eye contact. Maybe it’s because he’s standing right under a lamp, and his hair looks golden brown. Or maybe it’s because his words only held sincerity- even longing, if you felt like being delusional. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

James Potter was pointing a wand at your face. 

He was all arrogance as he crept closer towards you, a stupid smirk on his stupid face, his stupid eyes alight with mischief. 

You raise your own wand, the wood cool and familiar in your hands, gripping it tightly. You watch his movements- the way his shoulders tense slightly and his eyes squint a smidge. “Expelliarmus.” His voice rings out, sure and loud. Expecting his attack, you're quick to block the spell. 

You address the crowd without taking your eyes off of the boy in front of you. “When sparring, you want to study the person. Learn their tells.” The group of students nod in acknowledgment, much more interested in seeing who will win instead of learning. 

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher wanted you and James to come in and give a visual demonstration of sparring for some of the younger students. You were happy to agree, having only dreamed of a moment like this. 

James was making it easy to spar with him: with his cocky comments about how he was going to win and the flirty winks he keeps shooting your way, you were more than happy to get him on his knees. 

“Stupefy,” you mutter, scowling when he shouts a defence spell. “You're doing well,” he smiles encouragingly, “I’m pretty good at sparring and most people would have been on their ass by now.” 

It’s the fact that he seems genuinely surprised at your doing well that sends annoyance travelling up your spine. His ego is bigger than Snapes, Merlin could he be anymore of an ass? 

“Do you want me to go easy on you-“

“-langlock.” He’s quiet in an instant, unable to speak with his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Eyes widened in shock, the hand that holds his wand falters, and you don’t hesitate to yell, “Levicorpus.”

The forgotten crowd behind you laughs as an imaginary force holds James in the air by his ankle. “I saw you use this on someone just the other day. How does it feel to be on the receiving end?” Despite the obvious annoyance swirling in his eyes, a glint lightens the caramel brown. 

“It feels rather sickening, I’d admit,” he groans, his head getting redder by the second. You smile at his obvious discomfort. “Do you want me to go easy on you?” You mock, voice lowering in a feeble attempt to match his voice. 

Despite his complicated position, he smiles brightly at your teasing. “If you wouldn’t mind, love.” You point your wand and smile innocently. “Okay.” The loud thud of him falling to the ground is enough to make you smile.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

“She beat me at a duel. Me, James Potter.” His voice was especially loud as he walked around aisles in the library, an amusing look of shock on his face. Remus snorts from beside him, walking towards a particular genre of books. 

“Believe it or not, James, you’re not always going to win. And she’s one of the best students in the school.” Despite James’ whiny tone, his heart was filled with pride. He knew you were a good witch, and he was finally glad to witness first-hand what you were made of. 

“Now,” James catches himself before he completely stumbles into Remus, shooting the scarred man a sheepish smile. “This is the book you wanted, right?” Despite himself, James feels the apple of his cheeks turn red at the familiar book cover in Remus’s hands. 

Merlin, what he’s doing is so dorky and pathetic. But he didn’t like the idea that he knew nothing about your hobby of reading - a hobby you waste most of your days doing. So he forced Remus to come to the library with him, under the guise of wanting to pick up a new hobby. He managed to remember the name of the book you were reading and asked Remus to find it for him. 

Grabbing the book from Remus’s hands, he began walking towards the counter, hoping Remus would return to studying and leave it at that. His hopes were not answered. “I’m surprised you’re getting into reading. It’s never been your thing.”

Recognising the suspicion in his voice, James walks faster. “Just wanted to try something new.”

“Well, it’s funny you picked that book; you know this is a certain Head Girl’s favorite book?”

He doesn’t look back. “Really? I didn’t even know she could…read.” At his mix-up, he comes to a complete halt, shoulders slumping in defeat. He keeps his head down as he mutters, “Fine, I chose this book because she read it.”

“Really? I thought she couldn’t read.” At James’ glare, Remus’ amused expression turns into one of pity. “James Potter is reading for a girl. A girl that beat him in a duel, nonetheless. Do you have a crush?” James scowls despite his pinking cheeks, and Remus laughs gently in response. 

“I do not have a crush. I just think I should be getting to know her more since she’s Head Girl and she doesn’t like me much.” James finally reaches the counter, chucking the dastard book on the counter much too harshly for the librarian's liking, earning a scathing glare that he ignores. 

Remus doesn’t continue the conversation any longer, but the silence does nothing to calm the fast beating of his heart as his thoughts spiral and his breathing becomes uneven. James might just have a crush on you.  

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

It was becoming harder and harder to dislike James. In fact, you weren’t sure why you were ever angry at him. Sure, he’s arrogant and immature, but right now, all you can think about is the way he’s comforting a crying first-year in the hall, genuine worry coating his actions as he pulls the little boy in for a hug. 

You’re not sure what to do, standing there awkwardly in the hall and shuffling on your feet. You can’t look away; the kind look in James’ eyes is too sincere, his smile is too perfect, and his words are too warm. You’re scared you’re going to melt. 

“It’s okay, bud. They’re mean and cruel, but you’re strong. You stood up for yourself, and that’s pretty great.” You can’t take this side of James. His caring, nurturing side. 

So you turn around and smile awkwardly at one of the moving paintings. Behind you, you can faintly hear James mutter the words, “You’re going to be a great seeker one day,” then some shuffling before a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder. 

You jump and turn to meet James’s amused eyes. “What are you doing staring at the wall, love?” Your eyebrows raise, and your eyes widen, mind whirring to come up with an answer besides the truth. “I just realised I’ve never actually stopped to appreciate the stone walls.”

“You’re an interesting one,” He claims with no real malice. You just laugh awkwardly and keep walking. “Is that first year okay?”

His smile dims at the thought of the young boy. “He’s alright. I promised to take him to Quiddich training one day; he wants to be a seeker.”

“That’s awfully thoughtful of you.” You smile, raising your eyes to look into his for barely a minute before looking away. If you had looked long enough, you would have noticed the pink that travelled up his neck and painted his cheeks, mouth open like a blubbering fish. 

In hopes of looking calm and casual, he strugs off your compliment with an awkward,  “U-u,h it was nothing, really.” You’re not ready to let the conversation end. “No, it was really sweet-”

“I’m reading a book!” 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. James Potter was a stupid, awkward young man - or at least he thought so. You didn’t mind the abrupt change in topic, especially if it was about a book.

Your face visibly lit up, the warm spark in your eyes growing tenfold. “Yeah? What book?”

The casual name drop of your favorite book coming from James’ deep voice has a bright smile taking over your gleeful face. James was too happy to be blinded by such a light. 

“Really?” At his nod, you grip his arm and jump like a crazed woman. “I love that book!” You stop jumping and stare hopefully, wanting to know his every thought about the book you’ve read more times than you could count. 

“Really? I had no idea,” He laughs awkwardly. “The main character is probably my favorite.” It’s only when he starts walking do you remember that you’re still holding onto his arm, awkwardly dropping it at your side. 

“The main character?” He nods. You move your hand to fiddle with your hair. “I…She always reminded me of me. She’s always underestimated because she’s quiet, which I understand, and some of the things she’s gone through reminds me of my own memories- not that I’m saying you like her because she reminds you of me or anything.” 

At your anxious ramblings, James stops, a gentle smile pulling at his plush lips. He moves so his eyes meet yours, and you’re too captivated to look away. “No, that’s exactly why she’s my favorite. She reminds me of you.” 

Your stunned silence doesn’t bother him, and he moves closer, the soles of his shoes touching yours. A large hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and you’re sure that you’re dreaming things when he mutters, “And that guy she’s dating? The captain of the football team? He reminds me of me. Different sport and all, but desperate for the attention of the girl.” 

The whispers of his words graze your cheek, and you’re glad he had pulled away quickly before you did something stupid like kiss him. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 

You stared at the hall like an artist would stare at their paintings. Everything had come out better than you expected, and you were in awe of the glowing lights that shimmered in the eyes of the happy students as they danced and laughed. 

Your eyes shimmered, but you were void of laughter and dance. No one had asked you to the Yule Ball, and you had no desire to ask anyone yourself. You didn’t mind being alone, you just didn’t like the pitying looks being thrown your way. Dorcas was already lost on the dance floor, and you didn’t want to ruin her night.

So you stood in the corner, smiling at the buzz of happiness that floated across the room. You weren’t alone for long. “Would you care for a dance?” James Potter was clad in a suit, standing in front of you with a playful smirk and outstretched hand. 

A laugh of absurdity broke free from your coloured lips. “Ginny has been looking at you ever since you entered the hall. Go dance with her.” Despite your words, you wanted him to stay. His presence was comforting.

“Ginny and I didn’t work hard for months decorating this hall. Now,” He shakes his outstretched hand impatiently, “let’s dance.” 

You wouldn’t be surprised if the punch was spiked because you lost your inhibitions too quickly for your liking, grasping his warm hand and letting him drag you onto the dance floor. 

With his hand on your waist and the other holding yours, you’re forced to distract yourself from his touch by the band that plays at the front, the slow, deep voice of the singer enough to make you want to fall asleep. 

You rest your cheek on his shoulder and close your eyes. 

“Tired?” The kiss he places on your neck is enough to make you wide awake again, but you still nod.

“I bet you are. You’ve been working so hard lately with the ball and with the test you had today. How did that go, by the way? I’m sure you did great-”

“What are you doing?” You tense under his touch, his words, his hands, all becoming too much. As if sensing your discomfort, he pulls away. “What do you mean?” 

You stare at him for a short moment before your gaze falls to your fiddling hands. “You’re being…kind. I don’t know what to do.”

“Be kind back, maybe?” He attempts to joke but falls short. “I don’t know why you have such a hard time being kind to me, but if I’ve done something wrong, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I really do like you.”

Your silence is enough to make him pull away; you grow cold without his touch. 

“I’m sorry.” He stops his quick actions of leaving. “I’m not…I’ve been cold, and I’m sorry. You’re just so…scary. Merlin, the only interaction we had before we became Head Boy and Head Girl was when you turned my hair pink.”

He takes a step closer, and you take a step back, guilt spilling out of you in the form of words. 

“It’s just…I judged you wrongly, and I’m sorry. I really am. You’re not an egotistical and mean person. You’re actually really sweet, and it’s playing with my heart. I’m torn between caring for you like I haven’t cared for anyone before and thinking of you the way I always thought of you. 

He reaches for your hands, cradling them gently. “I understand. I’ve only really shown you the arrogant side of myself, and it’s not wrong for you to assume I am otherwise. It’s just much easier to talk to a pretty lady when I feel like I can make her mine.”

“You could have any girl in the school, and you know that.” He shakes his head at your words, the sound of laughter fading behind you as he leads you away from the hall, down corridors and through doors until you’re both outside, the moonlit glow hugging you like a baby’s blanket.

He tightens his grip on your hands and utters with a small smile, “I couldn’t have the only one that really matters because I messed it up when I dyed half her hair pink.”

You scoff and avoid his eyes. “You could have me.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Just don’t break my heart.”

“To break your heart would be to break my own. Why would I want to break something that I care for so deeply? That is worth the gold of millions of men?” He falls to his knees in front of you, hands gently gripping the fabric of your dress, looking up at you with eyes filled with more passion than a writer writing a romance. 

You let yourself breathe in the cool night air, the cold spreading against your flushed skin. “I’m scared. You’re too good for me, James. Too good for me.” Despite yourself, your shaking hand moves to cup his cheek. He places a long kiss on your palm, never breaking contact with your misty eyes. 

“Why would you say that, my love? You have so much courage. So much power and kindness.” At your silence, he slowly raises, never wanting to be separated from your touch as his hands move to your hips and his head falls to the crook of your neck. 

Your hands fall to his head, playing with his soft curls. You look up at the ceiling and sniff as a lone tear falls down your cheek. “I’m sorry for being so rude when we first met.”

“And I’m sorry for turning your hair pink.” His breath tickles your neck. 

“You’re forgiven.” 

You can barely get the words out before his lips are against yours, gentle and warm and right where you want them to be. 

[starsoverbrooklyn]

Very informal, obnoxious, and messy annotations below... (all love, promise) 💚

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you. 

I love that this feels so him. I’m a full supporter of the theory that Bucky and Steve both lack the sense for self-care and burdening with what can heal—regardless of it being broken. Ah! & then your sprinkle of his personality? 5-star Michelin.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book. 

🫵Witch!! I shouldn’t be able to PICTURE this rn—insane work.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

This is the content I live for—everyone on this earth and living their best lives. I love the rest of this scene so much—ugh. And the wrapping paper?! Cait. I’m dramatic but I’m sending you my hospital bill bc i feel the love for this piece building & i’m going to have to go through another heartbreak of finishing it again.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–” 

Omg, he’s whipped. and i love it.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar. 

This gives congressman Bucky & I’m losing my mind. Him knowing the drink is such an attractive detail, ugh. 

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room.

My breath trembled a bit like he actually cut me off. You’re compiling so many rich tropes into one piece and mixing it with your ability to just create an immersive reading experience… It’s giving am I reading or watching a movie?

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions.

Time for me to indulge a little on my top love language. You did this push and pull with her anxiety and his soothing so naturally. People often mistake WOA as someone who needs to be constantly assured, and though there are people who do—the truth and assurance in his words, with a note of him highlighting her past things worth praising? I seriously love how beautifully you’ve touched on all of these love languages.

And then the fucking—

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

I get this is a huge talking point with this piece, but it was such a subtle affirmation that he cares about what she shares with him—and gosh, I wish I could rave day & night about how amazing you did with this.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.” 

I’m a skeptic of shifting, but if I wasn’t, this would go on my script. This gives ‘I’d stop the world and melt with you’, which is the epitome of quality time. Beautiful.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

This parallel is paralleling. (Don’t hate me, I’ve never read the books, but this is the reason I’m going to).

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

Ugh, adorable. Give him to me, Cait. Just let me copy him from your brain and paste him irl. And the touch about the cootie-phobic crush just puts the icing over the cavity just before things take a turn……

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

CAIT, LADIES AND GENTS. Made Bucky flip like the switch he so desperately is. 

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.”

I… have to read the rest of this portion in solitude… I shall return.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them.

Screaming!!

You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him. “Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.” 

CRYING!!! THROWING UP!!!!!!!!!!!! UNFORGIVABLE. 

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

*SLAMS CREDIT CARD ON TABLE A BILLION TIMES* ADD TO CART. ADD TO CART. ADD TO CART. BUY. BUY IMMEDIATELY. BUY POSTHASTE. FULL-fucking circle, baby. This is what we were WAITING FOR!!!!!!

Cait—I do not expect you to read all of this. Just know that I had so much fun reading it this time around (as I’d previously wished I could read it for the first time again)—and it felt just like the first. I’m reading as part of self-improvement for my imagination, and I hope you know this will always be in my top favorites of things I’ve read that made me feel. Thank you for writing it, and sharing on this platform. May your pillows and covers always be just the right temperature for the season. I’ll definitely be back for more 💚 -rrinnie

love language

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 6.6k

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

“remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

warnings/tags: smut, oral, unprotected sex, mentions of blood, wound care, brief uses of alcohol, anxiety and self-doubt, language, reader is afab, avenger!reader, fluffier than what i typically write, undercover mission, friends to lovers!!! 18+ only

Acts of Service

“Exciting Friday night?” Your head snaps up at the masculine voice. You nearly slosh hot tea on both yourself and the pages of the book that lay open in your lap. You're surprised to see him - as far as you were aware, Bucky and Sam were in Munich. You didn't think they were supposed to be back in the country for another two days.

“Something like that,” you answer, regaining your composure as you bring the mug to your lips. “What are you doing back so early? Did recon go okay?”

Bucky lets out a long sigh as he plops down into the recliner, adjacent to where you're curled up on the sofa in the compound’s communal living room. His eyelids look heavier than normal, with dark circles underneath that aren't typically present. You place your cup of tea on the end table next to you and close the book before angling your body towards him, giving him your undivided attention.

“It was a shit-show,” he answers bluntly, voice laced with defeat. “HYDRA had the drop on us from the minute we entered Germany. What was supposed to be us just gathering intel turned into an ambush. One minute, it was just the two of us in an old warehouse, and then the next..” he trails off, eyes locked on one of the buttons of his tactical pants that he’s fidgeting with. “We’re lucky to have made it out. Sam was taken to med-bay as soon as we got back. Broken arm and collarbone, dislocated shoulder, possibly a few fractured ribs..” he lists off the injuries.

“Jesus,” you cringe, a death grip on the book in your hands as you listen to him summarize the mission. “Looks like you came out pretty unscathed in comparison.” You glance him over from head to toe, relieved to see no visible wounds or bruises.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, sitting forward and pulling the collar of his black t-shirt over to expose his right shoulder. Your eyes bulge when you see the obvious knife wound that the fabric had been concealing. “Not completely unscathed.”

“Holy shit, Bucky, why didn’t you go get this stitched up?” You stand up quickly, your book falling forgotten to the floor as you step closer to him to inspect the cut. There’s dried blood covering the surrounding skin of his chest and shoulder, with fresh blood still seeping from the opening of the wound. Even with the luxury of the Quinjet, a direct flight from Germany to New York is at least eight hours, who knows how long the cut had been steadily oozing–

“The bleeding has slacked off for the most part at this point,” he tries to assure you, attempting to cover the wound back up with his shirt. His shirt that, upon closer inspection, is thoroughly soaked through with blood. You all but smack his hand away so that you can continue to inspect the cut.

“It’s too deep,” you shake your head. “It needs stitches.”

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you.

Before returning to the living room, you stop by the kitchen and grab a cold can of Blue Moon to help take the edge off. Upon reentering the living room, you find that he’s hunched over where he sits in the recliner, leaning forward to grab your book from where it had fallen on the rug.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book.

“The Hunger Games,” you answer simply as you place the first-aid kit on the couch and hold out the beer to him. He accepts the drink, a small, surprised smile appearing on his face.

“Shirt,” you instruct a second later, turning to him with a warm, wet rag that you intend to clean some of the dried blood off with. Surprisingly, he obliges your request, placing both the beer and the book in his lap to pull the bloodied fabric over his head.

“And what exactly is The Hunger Games about?” he asks, looking up at you through his thick lashes before turning his attention back to the book in his lap. He flips it over, skimming the words on the back cover.

“The Hunger Games,” you begin as you delicately swipe the damp washcloth across the dirty skin around his wound, watching as the material turns from white to pink as it collects the old blood. “Are dystopian fiction novels. The books get their title from an annual event in which a boy and a girl, ranging from the ages of twelve to eighteen, from twelve different districts are selected by name-drawing to compete in a fight to the death. Twenty-four go into an arena, one comes out.”

“Sheesh,” Bucky grimaces and pops the tab to the beer. You turn away from him, placing the soiled washcloth on the table next to him before retrieving some disinfectant from the kit. “And what’s the point in having a bunch of children kill each other?”

“Punishment and control,” you shrug, pouring some of the clear liquid on a large gauze pad until it’s soaked. He gives you a vague nod, signaling he’s ready for you to clean the wound. You dab the drenched cotton along the opening of the wound, wincing more visibly than Bucky does himself. “The districts where the children are reaped from have had uprisings against the nation’s Capitol in the past. The games are to punish them, as well as to remind them what power the Capitol holds.”

Bucky’s brows furrow together, contemplating your words. You make the initial incision for his stitches and he lets out a grunt of discomfort. “Sorry,” you mumble, concentrating on the stitchwork.

“So what happens?” He asks after a few moments of silence, obviously trying to distract himself from the needle going in and out of his tender flesh as he sips on the amber colored liquid. “The group of kids rebel and take down the Capitol?”

“You’re not too far off,” you chuckle lightly. “I guess you’ll just have to read them for yourself to find out.”

“I suppose I will,” he says, eyeing your needlework from the corner of his eye. “Will you let me borrow your copies when I finish The Lord of the Rings?”

“You’re reading The Lord of the Rings?” you fail at hiding your tone of surprise, more focused on finishing suturing his cut.

“Don’t act so shocked,” he feigns insult. “I read when I have the free time to do so.” He turns his head towards you for the first time since you began stitching, causing you to realize just how close his face is to your own. You push down the fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach at the close proximity, clearing your throat as you turn to grab a pair of small medical scissors. You clip the thread before backing away from him.

“That should hold you together well enough until your supernatural super-soldier healing abilities take care of it while you sleep.”

He stands from his position in the recliner, holding out your book to you. “Thank you,” he tells you sincerely. “For the stitches, and the beer.”

“Of course,” you say as you take your book back from him. “Don’t want you getting blood all over the compound.”

“I think I’m gonna go check on Sam,” he sighs. “I’ll let you get back to your reading.”

“Get some rest!” you demand as he retreats to the hallway.

“Yes ma’am,” he calls without looking back, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance.

For the rest of the night, you try to focus on your book and not the way you felt when his plush pink lips and cerulean blue eyes were just inches from your face.

Receiving Gifts

One week later

Punctuality has never been your strong-suit, but you didn’t expect to be the very last person to arrive at Bucky’s birthday party - get together, as he insists on calling it, since he feels silly having a birthday party at over one hundred years old. However, as you’re approaching the pavilion at the compound’s lake, you see that all of your friends are already mingling comfortably.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

You make your way over to a picnic table closer to the lake that has been dedicated to presents so that you can add yours to the pile. You had ordered the gift a week ago, the same night that you had stitched up Bucky’s shoulder wound, and it arrived just in time - in today's mail, only an hour ago.

Hence the reason you are the last to arrive with a shittily-wrapped present in hand.

“Is that Avengers wrapping paper?” You whirl around at the amused voice to see Bucky walking towards you.

“That it is,” you confirm. “You and I aren't featured, though. Just the OGs,” you shrug, staring down at the cartoon depictions of Steve and the others.

“I was starting to wonder if you weren't going to come.” He says lightheartedly, nodding in the direction of everyone else.

“Your present didn't get delivered until the last minute,” you explain, giving the box-shaped object in your hand a shake. “Didn't want to show up empty handed.”

“You didn't have to get me a gift at all,” he says reassuringly, but eyes the present curiously. “But since you almost missed my party over it, I should open it right away.” He holds his hands out expectantly, almost childlike.

You roll your eyes, handing over the poorly packaged present. You had never been the best at gift-wrapping, usually preferring to reuse bags.

“I did not almost miss your party. It's just now eight o'clock,” you defend yourself, staring at the sun that's just starting to set over the lake's horizon, painting the New York sky in hues of orange and purple.

He smirks, walking past you to place the present on the table. You watch as he rips the wrapping paper away unceremoniously, until the gift is revealed.

“I know you had asked to borrow my copies,” you begin, suddenly feeling nervous as you watch him look over the box set of the first edition of The Hunger Games trilogy. “But my copies are old, and tattered, and have been annotated to shit, so.. I thought maybe you'd like your own,” you shrug nonchalantly.

He studies the box, pulling out the first book and glancing it over with a look you can't quite decipher. There's a faint hint of rose on his cheeks, and the lines around his eyes crinkle when he turns his head to look at you.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–”

“This pizza is getting cold!” You hear Sam's voice bellow from under the pavilion a few yards away. “I'm about to dig in with or without the birthday boy.”

You exhale through your nose, a half laugh, half sigh and look at Bucky expectantly. “Pretty sure you're the only birthday boy here.”

“I guess that's my cue,” he sighs as he places the books with the rest of his unopened gifts. “Thanks again, really. It's my favorite gift,” he adds with a sly grin as he begins to walk towards Sam and the table of pizza boxes.

“You haven't even opened the others yet,” you point out, following in his steps.

“Don’t need to open any of the others to know that yours is my favorite.”

Words of Affirmation

Two weeks later

Overstimulated. That's the best word to describe the way you're currently feeling.

Nervous, uncomfortable, irritable, a little hungry, even - any of those words would suffice, too. But with the way the velvet fabric of your dress hugs your hips too tightly, the way that the conversation of the drunk party guests roars in your ears, and the way that the heels of your feet already burn in your platform wedges so early in the evening, you think overstimulated sums up your current state the best.

You fidget with the extravagant ring that adorns your left ring finger, twisting it back and forth and rubbing the pad of your right thumb across the oval-shaped stone.

You aren't even supposed to be here, your brain keeps reminding you. It was supposed to be Natasha. Natasha, who has a boatload of undercover operations experience. But then she had to come down with the flu. Natasha, who never gets sick with anything more than a head cold, bedridden with the flu the day before a highly anticipated undercover mission that you are now taking her place in.

It's not that you hadn't been part of an undercover operation before - you had. You just hadn't been part of any undercover operation that required you to pose as someone's wife before.

Definitely not Bucky's wife.

The two of you had just arrived at the party no more than thirty minutes ago and you had spent the entirety of that time thinking that you wouldn't be able to make this believable; that everyone would see how anxious and awkward you feel and just know - just know that you weren't meant to be here and that it's abundantly clear that you and Bucky aren't actually together.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar.

“How'd you know I like lemon drops?” You ask, instantly recognizing the pale yellow liquid in the martini glass.

“I'm your husband. It's part of my job to know your go-to cocktail,” he smirks, looking at you in a way that almost makes you believe his words. “Besides, I'd know your drink of choice anyway. You always order a lemon drop.”

You clear your throat, breaking his stare by checking out the fellow attendees and event staff filtering through the ballroom. You slowly sip the sour liquid, trying to focus on the burn of the vodka and not the heat radiating across the skin of your back from him simply resting his fingers against the material of your dress.

“So where's Ivanov?” you break the tension. The illegal arms dealer that you'd been assigned to spy on was nowhere to be seen.

“He should be showing his face any minute now,” Bucky answers, a hint of displeasure in his voice. “I overheard some men at the bar saying he had just arrived in a three million dollar Bugatti with his twenty year old girlfriend.” You visibly cringe at the numbers. Ivanov had to be approaching senior citizen status at this point.

“Can't say that I'd expect anything else from him,” you sigh, attempting to wipe the disgust from your features. “What’s our game plan from here? Hover close by him and listen in on conversations–”

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room. You follow his gaze, realizing that Ivanov has entered with his exceptionally youthful girlfriend on his arm. Bucky extends his own arm to you, which you accept after tossing back the last sip of your drink and setting the empty glass on a table behind you.

He guides you to the center of the dance floor where several other couples are swaying to classical piano music. Ivanov mingles with a small group of questionable looking men just a few feet behind you, where Bucky is able to keep an eye on him.

He places one hand on your waist, using the other to hold one of yours in his own as he begins to slowly sway both of you to the rhythm of the music. Your free hand rests on the back of his neck, where you nervously twirl a tuft of his hair between your perfectly manicured fingers (you tried not to take too much offense to Sharon rushing you to the first salon she could find yesterday to help you look the part).

Bucky huffs a low laugh before using his grip on your hip to tug you closer to him, closing an awkward amount of space that separates your chest from his.

“If we want this to be believable, you’re gonna have to act like you kind of like me,” he murmurs lowly so that no one near you overhears. His face is just inches from yours - the scent of sandalwood from his aftershave and spearmint from his mouthwash is dizzying. Add in the fact that the lemon drop you had just quickly downed was heavy on the vodka, it’s a miracle that you’re still standing upright in these ridiculous heels that Sharon had picked out for you.

“I do like you,” you huff, your cheeks warming. “Not liking you isn’t the problem.” His gaze shifts away from where Ivanov stands a few yards behind you and down to your face.

“What is the problem then?”

You stare at his hand that holds yours, your eyes fixated on the brilliant diamond of your faux wedding ring. “For starters, I don’t really know how to slow dance,” you half-mumble. As if on cue, your left ankle shifts ever so slightly in your shoe, causing you to wobble. Bucky tightens his grasp on both your waist and hand to help steady you. He cackles - loudly enough for an old lady walking by to give him a side-eye.

“I think it’s pretty unlikely that our cover gets blown because you’re a little unsteady,” he whispers reassuringly. It does little to ease the lump of anxiety that has settled in your gut.

“It’s not just my lack of dancing experience,” you retort. “It’s all of this. I’m a bit out of my element here and I can’t help but feel like Natasha would have been able to do a much better–”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions. You can’t decide if it’s the effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins or if it’s just the fact that it’s him, but it feels as though there’s a continuous trail of hot sparks everywhere his skin touches yours. “You've got this. If anyone’s got this, it's you. You've handled missions far more daunting than this with ease, right?”

You finally shift your eyes to meet his gaze. His deep blue eyes bore into yours with utmost sincerity. You give him a small nod of agreement and a tight-lipped, uncertain smile.

He leans in closer so that his mouth hovers just next to your ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps down the expanse of your neck and shoulders.

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

The slow, gentle swaying motions you'd been forcing your body to perform come to a sudden halt. You look at Bucky as if he's grown a second head. He’s looking at you with a shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear.

“Did you just quote Peeta Mellark?”

“I finished up the first book yesterday,” he shrugs as if his words hadn't just made your heart skip several beats. “Now let's get this job over with so we can go discuss the book in detail over some greasy diner food, yeah?”

Quality Time

The mere thought of getting the fuck out of that giant estate and away from Ivanov and the other countless skeevy party-goers to gorge on greasy diner food was more than enough motivation to get you through the duration of the mission.

Of course, it helped that Ivanov is a lightweight drunk with no concept of volume control. After a couple drinks, he handed the location of his next illegal arms deal to you and Bucky on a silver platter - without ever even noticing the two of you dancing just feet away from him.

“I'm sending the audio recording over to you right now,” Bucky says as he types on his cell phone. The two of you are currently in a drugstore parking lot half an hour away from the estate, sitting in the Audi SUV that you'd been given for this evening’s mission.

“Got it,” Sam’s voice booms through the car’s Bluetooth speakers a second later. “You guys did great back there. Go ahead and get back to the compound for debriefing.”

Your eyes flash to the time on the vehicle's touchscreen display - 10:06 pm. You can feel your stomach churning from hunger and your skin itching to get out of the restrictive velvet fabric, the last thing you wanted to do at this hour was go to a fucking debriefing.

“About that..” Bucky starts, noticing your disappointed expression and tense posture. “Debriefing is going to have to wait until the morning.”

“We should really get any details while they are still fresh–”

“What’s that? Sam? Sorry, you're breaking up, can't understand what you're–”

Bucky's flesh finger touches a button on the digital display screen and the call disconnects before he finishes his sentence.

“You know he's going to call back any second, right?” You ask after a moment of loaded silence. Bucky says nothing at first. You watch as he powers off his phone, and then grabs yours from its location in the center cup holder and powers it off, as well.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.”

Half an hour later, you and Bucky sit opposite each other in a cozy, corner booth of the only open diner in a five mile radius. It's half diner, half arcade, and the two of you are some of the only people here save for the teenage couple making out next to the jukebox in the gaming area. You both look out of place - him in his black satin suit and you in your burgundy colored dress with the thigh-slit, but you're too relieved to be eating to care.

He's already scarfed down a fried chicken sandwich and is rapidly making his way through a pile of mozzarella sticks. You're eating a fat stack of blueberry pancakes and the best loaded hash browns that you think you've ever had.

Breakfast foods hit different at eleven o'clock at night.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

“That's a big assumption coming from someone who hasn't even started the second book yet,” you say as you fork a bite of pancake into your mouth.

He throws his hands up in mock defense, covering his now empty plate up with a dirty napkin.

“You're not wrong though,” you admit. “She did miss a lot of signs, and she's not always the most reliable narrator.”

He responds with a small hum as he watches you finish your pancakes with a soft smile that shows his laugh lines and the dimple of his left cheek.

His smile turns to something more curious as the young couple who had been making out in the arcade room earlier dashes past your booth and out the back door of the restaurant.

“What is it?” You ask, pushing your empty plate towards the center of the table.

“The game room is free now,” he states, as if it's obvious. “Now I can kick your ass in air hockey.”

And kick your ass in air hockey he does. And skee ball, and Dance Dance revolution.

“Please don't tell Natasha that you beat me at Dance Dance Revolution,” you beg him as you pick up your high heels that you had discarded for the game. “She'll never let me live that one down. In fact, if anyone asks, it was a dead tie for all of these games.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he chuckles, approaching the pool table in the center of the room and leaning against the edge. “As long as you win this game of pool.”

“No, nope, absolutely not,” you freeze where you're standing, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I couldn't beat you at air hockey then I don't stand a chance of beating you at pool.”

He ignores you, instead turning to choose two cue sticks from the selection on the back wall. He tosses one to you from several feet away, which you instinctively drop your shoes to the floor to catch.

“I haven't even tried to play pool since I was maybe ten years old,” you whine.

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

“It was at a birthday party,” you admit. “I pretended to know what I was doing to impress a boy that I had a crush on.”

“And how did that go for you?” He removes the triangle-shaped container from around the balls and begins to line up his shot.

“Well, I haven't tried to play pool since then,” you begin, taking a seat on the edge of the table and turning your head to watch him. He pulls the cue stick back and quickly stabs it forward, breaking the balls apart and sending them rolling in various directions across the felt table. “And Kyle from my fourth grade class thought that I had cooties, so, you tell me how you think that went for me.”

“Sounds like it was Kyle's loss.” You watch as he walks to one of the table's pockets to look inside. “I've got stripes,” he states, looking at you with an expectant smile.

You exhale a dramatic sigh, hopping off the edge of the table and turning around to position your stick in front of the cue ball.

“Fine,” you relent, looking up at him from where you're leaning over across the table. “But you're not allowed to laugh at me when you realize I wasn't lying about having no experience at this.”

“Scout's honor,” he swears and you can tell by his smile and reddened cheeks that he’s already trying to contain his laughter.

Feeling extra nervous due to the way you can physically feel him watching you, you take an embarrassing amount of time working up the courage to propel the tip of the cue stick towards a solid purple colored ball.

It travels a foot or so across the green felt material of the table and comes to a stop just inches away from a corner pocket.

“Damn it,” you sigh under your breath.

“That wasn't too bad, actually,” he says, not even trying to conceal his tone of surprise as he walks over to where you're standing. “You just need to change your stance a little and hit the ball a bit harder.”

“So, do basically everything differently, then?”

“I can help you, if you want,” he offers with a smug grin.

“Hm,” you bite your lip as you pretend to contemplate the proposition. “Okay,” you accept with a shrug. “But this better not be an attempt to pull a cliche “pretend to help her with pool as an excuse to make a move” kind of move.” You're fully joking - you know Bucky well enough to know he wouldn't make such a corny, obvious move with anyone - and you definitely wouldn't expect him to do so with you.

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

The front of your thighs brush up against the edge of the table and Bucky’s arms enclose you on either side - his hands coming to rest next to each of your legs on the table's edge, as close as they can be to you without actually touching.

Your breath hitches in your throat when the silky material of his suit brushes against your bare shoulders, the sensation causing you to go deadly still as you await his next move.

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.” He murmurs, his mouth close enough to the exposed skin of your neck that you can feel the heat of his breath. It's an automatic response, the way your head tilts back into his touch. You start to pull away, start to feel embarrassed, start to tell him just how wrong he is, when he brings a flesh finger to the ball of your shoulder and trails his index finger down the skin of your arm, eliciting a surge of goosebumps in its wake.

This physical reaction doesn't go unnoticed by him, either. He hums a small laugh, inching closer to you so that his body presses against your ass.

“In fact,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I think that if I wanted to, I could have you bent over this table for me without having to resort to anything like that.”

If his chest wasn't pinning you between him and the pool table, you probably would have fallen over. The air in the arcade feels a sudden ten degrees warmer and you swear you can hear your blood pumping in your ears - things that unfortunately can't be blamed on the effects of the martini that had dissipated from your system hours ago.

No, it's all him. His closeness, his warmth, his voice, his scent. Just him.

“If you wanted to, yeah?” You question, your voice an octave higher than you ideally would have liked. “That makes it sound like you don't want to. But the bulge I'm feeling from your pants makes it seem like you do want to. Kinda sending me mixed signals here.” You rut back against him for good measure.

He hisses next to your ear, his hands snapping to your hips, effectively stilling you beneath him. His fingers dig into the flesh around your hip bones, the pressure somewhere perfectly between uncomfortable and pleasurable.

“Here? Bent over this table?” he tuts, his lips grazing the skin next to the shoulder strap of your dress. “Where a couple of unsuspecting teenagers could walk in for a game of skee ball at any second?” He lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating against your back.

“No, I don't think so,” he continues. “Not when we've got a brand new Audi with a spacious backseat and highly tinted windows just outside this building.”

Physical Touch

If someone had asked you six hours ago if you thought there was a chance you would be ending this night by having sex with Bucky Barnes, you would have said no.

But if someone had asked you if you thought there was a chance you would be having sex with Bucky Barnes in the backseat of a car in a diner-arcade combo parking lot, you would have said fuck no.

You would have been wrong on both accounts. And with the way that he's nipping and sucking up the insides of your thighs, you're pretty fucking okay with that.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist, your panties discarded on the floor of the car. You're laying as comfortably as you can across the backseat with Bucky nestled snuggly between your legs. It's a tight fit, and the stagnant air inside the Audi is balmy, but you'll be damned if you interrupt this to turn the AC on. The only light inside the vehicle is from the glow of the full moon that illuminates the sky, and the giant neon green diner sign a few yards away from where you're parked.

He's not wasting any time - it's well past midnight at this point and considering the fact that Bucky turned your cell phones off hours ago, you're surprised that Sam hasn't traced the location of the vehicle and sent search and rescue already.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them. You grind your pussy against his face, meeting his fervent motions with your own. He locks his lips around your clit before pulling away with an obscene, wet pop that echoes through the cab of the car.

He reaches one hand up to your shoulders while keeping his lips on you, quickly tugging down the spaghetti straps of your dress and then pawing at the fabric covering your chest to free your tits.

At the same time that he plunges his tongue inside you, he rolls a nipple between two of his cool, metal digits, yearning a sharp yelp from you. He releases his grip and then palms your breast in his hand, continuing to work your folds with his lips and tongue.

You don't know if it's the fact that it's been a ridiculous amount of time since you so much as kissed someone or the fact that Bucky eats pussy like he's starving, but you're approaching your climax insanely fast.

You clench your thighs around his ears and push your hips upwards, the friction building that warm tension in your lower belly that comes spilling over when he lets out a guttural moan across your core.

You cum against his face, feeling your juices drip down the insides of your thighs - there's a pesky voice in the back of your head telling you that you're going to have to pay to have this car detailed before giving it back.

He sits up, his back resting against the middle of the leather seat. He unbuttons and unzips his suit pants, raising off the seat just enough to tug them down to mid-thigh along with his boxers. You're still coming down from your orgasm when he's pulling you up from the seat and into a sitting position.

You tuck your legs underneath you so that you're propped up on your knees on the seat directly next to him. Bucky pumps himself in his hand as you lean over, gathering all of the saliva in your mouth and letting it slide between your lips and over the head of his cock.

You push his hand away to replace it with your own, using your spit as lubrication as you stroke him up and down. He throws his head back against the headrest, looking up at the roof of the car as he brings his hand around the curve of your ass, flesh hand finding your pussy that's still throbbing from how hard he had made you cum.

You can feel the smooth band of the engagement ring that you'd been wearing all evening repeatedly caress a large vein on the side of his dick - you remove your hand from him, causing him to snap his head back down to look at you. You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him.

“Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.”

You push the ring back down on your finger, his command sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. You're extending your hand back to his cock when he cuts you off, pulling you to him and across his lap.

You straddle him, his erection locked between your pussy lips and his lower belly. You move forwards, and then backwards - earning another deep groan from him as you coat the underbelly of his cock in your juices. You grind up and down against him several times, until you're feeling impossibly empty and can't take the feeling of not having him inside you any longer.

You lift yourself up on the balls of your feet, high enough for him to guide himself to your entrance. He teases your hole with his head - or at least tries to, before you're sinking yourself down onto his length. You go still for a moment when he's fully inside you, giving you both time to adjust to the new, overwhelming sensation of each other.

You begin to ride him, slowly at first - he stretches you blissfully sweet and soon you're picking up the pace, your ass bouncing off of his thighs with each comedown.

He places a hand on the back of your neck, pulling your face down to his in a sloppy, searing kiss. It hits you that he's inside you raw right now, and you're just now kissing. You taste yourself on him, warm and salty sweet. He sweeps his tongue along your bottom lip and you open up for him, letting him explore your mouth from the perfect angle that he's at beneath you.

He continues to kiss you but removes his hand from the back of your neck, moving both of them to cup your ass. He begins to meet your movements with his own, thrusting himself upwards so that his cock is ramming into that sweet spot of your cervix and sending you towards a second climax.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” you moan into his mouth, breaking the kiss for air. Your encouragement spurs him on, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Your legs turn to jelly beneath you, but he's got you - he holds you up by your ass cheeks and leans forward to take one of your nipples in his warm mouth.

It's enough to send you over the edge again. Your orgasm builds, heat exploding through your abdomen as his movements grow erratic and he spills into you from below.

He stills beneath you when you're both spent, your chest heaving against his. You make no effort to remove yourself from him, and he seems more than happy to keep you right where you are - his arms locking around your waist and pulling you close to him.

“I guess now would be as good of a time as any to ask you if you'd like to go on a date with me sometime?”

“Go on a date with you sometime?” You lean back, looking down with him with the limited amount of moonlight and neon lighting that breaks through the tinted windows. “We dressed up real nice, slow danced, spied on a bad guy, ate greasy diner food, played arcade games, and you're inside me as we speak. I think it's safe to say we're currently on a date.”

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

♡♡♡♡♡

thank you for reading!!! kind of nervous to put this one out there tbh, i've been working on it off and on for weeks but i love how it turned out and i hope you all do too. as always comments and reblogs are very appreciated 💕

it's nice to have a friend

moth to a flame

oil & water

[mononijikayu]

what was i made for — gojo satoru.

You paused. “Even if that means you’re technically with someone else’s wife?” “Baby, I’m with you. Not your paperwork. Not your status. Just you.” He grinned, leaned across the couch, and kissed your cheek. “And besides, if I ever feel insecure, I’ll just buy you a vacation home to stroke my ego.” You rolled your eyes, but your heart softened anyway. “I already have a vacation home.” “And?” He raised a sly brow. “You can have another one. Again, I’ll buy you one. Pick whatever you like.” You become flustered. “You’re ridiculous.” “Yeah, I know. But you love me.” “.....That I do.”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: nsfw!, r-18, afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, angst, hurt/comfort, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, falling in love, long-term relationship, separation, healing, age gap, emotional, relief, doubt, profanity, drama, doubt, explicit, sexual intercourse, making out, scratching, biting, multiple orgasms, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, fingering, creampie, praising, bodily fluids, mention of bodily fluids, mention of trauma, mention of cheating, mention of sexual innuendos, depiction of sexual activities, actor! nanami, actor! gojo, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 18k words

NOTE: this is probably the happiest chapter in the story. which means that something else will happen with time. there's about two or three chapters in this part of the story. toji's is almost finished too, but that takes time. we're about to see the end of the cheating au!!! thank you so much for reading it and loving my work and writing!!! i love you all so much~ see you in the next chapter!!! <3

masterlist

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the good life ― masterlist.

THINGS MOVED ON SO FAST IN A BLINK OF AN EYE, YOU COULD HARDLY CATCH THEM. It’s been four years since you and Gojo Satoru began… whatever this beautiful whirlwind was. Love, romance, partnership, a second chance.

Many people can call it what they will, those who know behind the scenes. But you were certain that these few years were the best years of your life.

At first, it felt strange, even unfair that you were living these experiences without a care in the world. It was all like you were stepping into sunlight too soon after the storm. Yet the more you saw the smile on your face blossoming, the more your hand was warmed by Satoru’s own, you started to think that the strange feeling was gone. 

Your amicable separation from your estranged husband Nanami Kento had been quiet, civil and weirdly calm. There were absolutely no fights.

There was no betrayal of confidence in that table, sitting across from each other in the home you once shared together. This was not what you expected for yourself after being married to him for nearly three decades. But that was just what it was.

You two were just people who grew apart, slowly and inevitably, like leaves falling from the same tree but drifting in different directions. Two miserable people who can’t bear to be miserable together any longer. This was for the best. At the very least, you both weren’t going to kill each other like that anymore.

Before long, you both were sitting in front of your lawyers and discussing everything. A legal agreement, a legal separation in a sense. Not yet divorce. That was what Kento and you had talked about at length that morning, after not seeing each other for a long time.

It wasn’t sentiment, exactly. Well, at least that’s what you like to think. Perhaps it was practicality, perhaps with a thread of stubborn care. Nanami Kento insisted on it. Even if you didn’t want anything to do with it at all. 

“Kento, I do not want your money.” You shake your head at him. “The kids can have it.”

“Look, the law states that if something happens to me, as my spouse, you’re entitled to half. All of it!” Kento jabs a finger at the paper like it personally offended him. “To be honest, you have more entitlement to all of it than anyone else.”

You scoff. “That doesn’t mean I want it. I’m not some fortune-hunting widow-in-waiting. You knew that when we got married.”

“I do know that.” he snaps back, exasperated. “That’s exactly why I’m giving it to you.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Your Royal Highness.” you mutter. “Shall I curtsy, or do we just skip to the part where you fake your death and live in a cabin in Norway?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You still want to keep your little charity empire alive, right?”

“Yes, of course I do—”

“Well, surprise!” He cuts in smoothly, that old lawyer–glint returning to his caramel eyes. “The money for that comes from the fund tied to this account”—he wraps the page with his knuckle—“which, might I remind you, was created by us, for you. The only way it keeps going is if you take the damn money.”

You cross your arms. “Fine. But we’re only selling the main house. Not the summer or winter homes. The kids still love those. They’re the only places where no one cries during dinner.”

“That’s a done deal.” he says too quickly. “But I’m giving you the full sale from the main house. All of it.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Why does this sound like you’re trying to bribe me into being your ghost–wife?”

He sighs and crouches in front of you, resting his arms on your knees like a man about to confess a war crime. “Because I’m thinking about the long term. When I die—”

“Don’t say it like you’re ordering takeout, gosh.”

“—you get half of everything.” he continues, unbothered. “The kids get the other half. I’ve already set it up.”

There’s a beat of silence before you say flatly, “That’s a very unsexy way to say you still care about me.”

He grins, crooked. “I stopped trying to be sexy when we started arguing about hedge funds in our pajamas.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You’re a pain in my ass, Nanami Kento.”

“And you’re the reason my accountant drinks.”

“Are you sure it’s not because of you?”

“I give him gifts.”

“I do too. That’s why you pay him double, don’t you?”

“Only because he likes you more than me.”

You both fall quiet in that moment, still looking into each other’s eyes. You could feel all of the tension shifting, even just slightly. A mutual understanding weaving through the sarcasm and legalese like it always has. 

Finally, you sigh. “Fine. We’ll sell the main house. You keep your weird death–plan. I’ll take the fund. But if you die on me in the next five years, I am haunting you.”

“That’s fair.” He nods solemnly. “You’ll probably be a very stylish ghost.”

“Oh, I will be in heels.”

“Gosh, that blue eyed bastard rubbed on you too much.”

“I can say the same thing about your new play thing.”

“It’ll be over in five months. Don’t be ridiculous.”

You snickered at him. You let yourself sit back, arms crossed, legs tucked under you like a queen on her crooked little throne. “After all that and the cheating, Nanami Kento…..You and I really are better as friends.”

He flinches, just a little. Enough for you to notice. “You’re not gonna let that one go, huh?”

“Oh, I’ve let it go. That’s why I’m fucking your co–star.” you reply coolly. “Well, not all of it. There’s still some anger. Right into the bonfire of my dignity, along with your cufflinks and that hideous espresso machine your secretary picked out.”

He presses his lips together like he’s deciding between biting them or biting his own tongue. “That machine cost three grand.”

“And couldn’t even steam milk right. Fitting, really.”

Kento lets out a huff of something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “You know, it’s weird how you can make me feel guilty and impressed at the same time.”

“I’m gifted like that.” You tilt your head at him. “But you know I’m right. We were always better when we weren’t trying so hard to be something... storybook. Friends with a shared mortgage and matching towels was a lie we told ourselves to make brunch less awkward.”

He nods slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. Friends who actually like each other, instead of married people tolerating each other’s toothbrushes.”

“Exactly.” You pause. “No one tells you how quietly devastating that kind of cohabitation is. One day you’re in love. Next, you’re arguing about throwing pillows and whose turn it is to pretend they’re happy.”

Kento’s eyes soften. “I did love you. I hope you know that.”

You smile. It's sad and dry and a little crooked. “I know. I loved you, too. Just… not enough to live in a sitcom with a laugh track made of resentment for the rest of my life. Not after Satoru loved me so well.”

“I know.”

There's silence again, but it's the calm kind this time. The “I see you” kind. The kind that only comes after the worst of the storm passes and you’re standing in the wreckage, somehow still upright.

“So…” he says after a beat. “Do I still get to crash at the winter house when the city drives me crazy?”

“As long as you don’t bring any dates there.” you reply. “That’s the only ground rule. I won’t bring Satoru either. It’s just for us and the kids.”

“Deal.”

“And if you break that, I’ll have the kids hide your socks in the freezer. Actually, throw you in the river.”

He grins, standing up and offering you his hand like it’s some kind of truce. “You really are a menace.”

“And you dear fool….” you say, taking it. “You are tragically still in love with your ex-wife who has better taste in furniture.”

“Touché.”

You both laugh ever so earnestly, honestly. It was a sharp, honest, tired laugh and for the first time in a long while, it feels real. You knew it was. That was the last time you met him in a few years.

The kids see him still, to be sure. But not enough. They still aren’t on the best terms, after all. Though your estranged husband sends greetings and gifts, he keeps himself busy with project after project. But perhaps that was for the best. 

Even after your paths diverged, he did as he promised and still funds your charity work. In fact, doubling what he has given over the years. And gave the money from the sale of the house. No questions asked. No comments. The wire transfers came in like clockwork. It was always clean, quiet, and consistent.

Gojo Satoru found out about it early on. You’d braced for a reaction. Almost anything from jealousy to disapproval. But he’d just blinked, snorted, and said:

“Well, it’s the least your absentee husband can do. Dude skipped out on being your soulmate, the least he can do is pay rent on your greatness.”

You laughed, surprised at how easily the tension melted away around him. “You’re not even the slightest bit weirded out?” you asked him once, months into your relationship.

Satoru glanced up from his phone, where he was reading something with that smug, unreadable look of his. “What, that your ex is still investing in your humanitarian ambitions? Please. If anything, I respect the hell out of that. He knows you’re worth betting on.”

You paused. “Even if that means you’re technically with someone else’s wife?”

“Baby, I’m with you. Not your paperwork. Not your status. Just you.” He grinned, leaned across the couch, and kissed your cheek. “And besides, if I ever feel insecure, I’ll just buy you a vacation home to stroke my ego.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart softened anyway. “I already have a vacation home.”

“And?” He raised a sly brow. “You can have another one. Again, I’ll buy you one. Pick whatever you like.”

You become flustered. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I know. But you love me.”

“.....That I do.”

There were days when guilt stirred quietly in your chest, especially when you caught yourself smiling at Satoru in the middle of an ordinary day. Just cutting vegetables in the kitchen, waiting in line for coffee, brushing your teeth side by side. That deep kind of joy felt… undeserved, sometimes.

But Satoru never made you feel like you owe anyone an apology.

He had a way of grounding you without anchoring you. He never demanded explanations. He never needed to be assured that he was loved. He just… was. He was everything you could ever dream of and more. 

He was steady and unshaken. So sure that whatever you gave him. Your time, your touch, your quiet little smiles—it was more than enough. And maybe that was what made you love him more fiercely than you ever expected.

One morning, you stood at the stove in one of his oversized shirts, stirring miso soup while he wandered in half-awake, hair a chaotic mess of white and pillow–pressed waves. He slid behind you without a word, arms slipping around your waist. His face pressed into the crook of your neck.

“You smell like tofu and betrayal, baby.” he mumbled.

You laughed, leaning back into his warmth. “Betrayal?”

“I was supposed to wake up before you and impress you with breakfast. Now I have no choice but to pout dramatically for the next hour.”

You turned in his arms, spoon in hand, raising a brow. “We both know you were never going to wake up first.”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his heart like you'd wounded him. “I could have. If I believed in myself. And if you hadn’t drugged me with your love and a weighted blanket.”

“Maybe I’ll drug you again tonight.”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “Now that’s romantic, baby.”

But behind the jokes, the little routines, the comfortable touch of familiarity, you knew he saw it too, that quiet shadow in your eyes on some nights.

The way your tender gaze drifted just a second too long when Nanami Kento’s name was mentioned on the news. The stillness in your shoulders when letters came in with his name on the envelope.

You never talked about it much. Well, at least not directly. You found yourself curled up on the balcony with wine and a blanket between you, Satoru carefully nudged your knee gently with his. He looks at you with stars in his eyes, with love in his eyes. 

“You don’t have to feel bad.” he said, not looking at you. “For loving someone who loved you well. That’s not a wound. That’s just… life. And you don’t have to tuck it away for me.”

You swallowed, the knot in your throat rising too fast, too suddenly. “I never wanted it to feel like I was splitting myself between you two.”

“You’re not, baby.” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re here. With me. That’s all I need. What you shared with Nanami doesn’t take anything from what we have. If anything, it just proves you know how to love deeply. And I’m lucky you chose to do it again.”

Your eyes blurred, and he let you fall against him, his hand smoothing over your hair as if keeping you from falling apart entirely. “I didn’t think I could have this again.” you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You can. And you do.”

And somehow, you believed him.

IT WAS A LOT, LEARNING HOW TO BE INDEPENDENT AGAIN. At that time, you bought your first apartment in a long while. It was supposed to be liberating—exciting, even.

A fresh start, a space all your own. But no one warns you that real estate hunting in the city is just emotional roulette with better lighting. The search was insane. 

Open houses felt like war zones. Every place you liked had at least one dealbreaker: too exposed, too small, too haunted by the spirit of bad interior design. And the ones that ticked all the boxes? Snatched up in seconds by people with deeper pockets or better poker faces.

You were melting down daily. The need for privacy, for a place that didn’t come with a paper-thin wall and neighbors who fought like they were auditioning for a reality show.

It all felt like too much. You’d walk into listings and walk right back out two minutes later when you realized the "third bedroom" was actually just a glorified closet with a weird smell.

Enter: Satoru’s mother, Gojo Sasaki.

A force of nature in kitten heels, wielding real estate knowledge like a weapon of divine intervention. She insisted on tagging along “just to make sure no one sells you a shoebox and calls it a penthouse.” and thanked every deity you half-believe in that she did. 

She brought snacks. She brought printouts. She brought energy. She fought brokers with a smile that could freeze lava and charmed doormen into giving her the real scoop on the building. And despite your initial protests, you were grateful. Deeply, surprisingly grateful.

You were sitting cross-legged in the back of yet another overpriced studio with water stains on the ceiling, staring blankly at the fake marble countertops when you sighed. “If I die here, tell the coroner I wanted better flooring.”

“I told you we should’ve skipped this one, sweetheart.” Satoru’s mother said, arms crossed, sunglasses still on indoors like she was ready to assassinate a broker if necessary. “That listing said ‘charming’ which we both know is code for ‘run.’”

You cracked a tired smile. “How do you always know these things?”

“Sweetheart, that’s simple.” she said, linking her arm with yours, “I survived three housing markets, two recessions, and your boyfriend’s rather stupid ‘minimalist’ phase. I know things. Now come on, we’re getting coffee and pretending this didn’t happen.”

You had no idea how you would've survived that apartment hunt without her. Satoru was off filming with Suguru for their big duo project. It was some morally ambiguous, slow–burn, guns–and–gloves drama where both of them looked like trouble and sin on-screen. 

Which meant you were left with a string of missed calls, loving texts like “you find a place with a bathtub yet? asking for my muscles” and a FaceTime from a desert set where he looked like a mirage with eye bags.

So yeah, you were mostly on your own. Except... not really.

“Let me guess.” you said after touring a third apartment that day, this one with a layout that made no architectural sense. “They called this one something like blah blah blah modern oasis. Or something like that.”

“Open-concept disaster is more accurate, sweetie.” she replied, flipping through her printouts with a level of judgment only a mother–in–law could wield. “Also, did you notice the neighbors? That man with the parrot who said he sings at night?”

“He does. I heard him through the vents.”

“That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

You laughed, even as you leaned heavily against the hallway wall, overwhelmed. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

She looked at you then—not with pity, but with that calm, razor–sharp gaze Satoru inherited. “Yes, you can. You’re just tired. And stressed. And madly in love with my idiot son, who thinks sending you something called memes is emotional support.”

You choked on a laugh. “You noticed that too?”

“Oh honey. He sends me the same ones. I’m quite confused about them, but all the same it’s what it is.”

Eventually after a long search, you found it. Tucked on a quiet street, the sixth place on what had become your no chance in hell sort of day. A sunlit living room, solid walls, a balcony just big enough for four chairs and a wine night. You stood in the middle of the room, blinking like you'd been hit by soft light and maybe.

Satoru’s mom placed her hand on your shoulder. “This is the one.”

You swallowed. “Really?”

She nodded. “You already relaxed. You haven’t done that in weeks. Also, the plumbing is from this century. And sweetie, you can afford this. It’s good to lavish on yourself.”

You turned to her. “You think he’ll like it?”

She smiled. “He’ll love it. But more importantly, you do.”

When Gojo Satoru finally returned back to Tokyo, the first thing he did was come to your new home. It was hard to get everything ready by yourself but your kids and Sasaki–san helped out and got everything done just before noon. You wouldn’t have gotten anything done in time if you did it all by yourself.

Your beautiful boyfriend came with his messy white hair, voice still quite a bit hoarse from late–night reshoots. You smiled at him and helped him take off his coat. You put away his coat in the coat hanger as he bothers himself with the slippers you laid on the floor. When he was done, you let your lips pressed to his. He smiles into the kiss, deepening it.

“Well, that’s quite a welcome after a long day.” He whispers against your lips, when you both separate. “Happy about that.”

“Hm, you always are.” You whisper back, smiling back at him. “I’m glad you could come.”

“Of course. Any time with you is precious time spent.”

You giggle. “You always flatter me.”

“My girl deserves nothing but the best, you know?”

“Welcome to your part-time residence, babe.” you said to him, moving to give him his own set of keys. “No parrots from creepy rich old guys. No cursed plumbing. Room for your life–size cardboard cutout of yourself.”

He blinked, grinning. “Wait—you found it? Like this is it?”

“She did, with my mapping, of course.” his mother said, arms folded proudly. She had just come from the kitchen. She was making dinner for the three of you. “You could say this was the diamond in the rough, son.”

Satoru looked between you both, stunned. “I leave for a bit and suddenly she’s your daughter and I’m the in–law?”

“Oh, honey, definitely.” his mother purred. “In my mind, it was when you told me you liked her. That was twenty odd years ago. But I digress.”

“Duh, she’s my mom now, baby.” You snorted. “She’s part of the deal now. You lose me, you lose her.”

“Noted, we switched roles.” he said, pulling you into a kiss before turning to her. “So do I get a closet?”

“No.” you and his mother said in unison. 

“Oh, come on! I gotta buy my own?”

“Son, that’s the least you can do.” His mother says as you and her hooked arms into the kitchen. “Pull your weight!”

“You tell him, ma!”

Gojo Satoru shakes his head. “I’m outnumbered now.”

“And don’t you forget it, honey!”

You started hosting dinners there, at first nervously, then with growing comfort. Satoru’s many friends who were loud, messy, chaotic in the best way began to fill your space with laughter, empty bottles of wine, and stories that tangled into the early morning hours.

They weren’t just his friends anymore. They became yours, too. And that has made you very happy. You hadn’t had friends in a very long time. Many had only been countless faces in the sea of your estranged husband’s stardom. Relationships in his world were fast paced. You hated it. But it was not the case with Satoru’s own pride. That you had adored so much.

Geto Suguru always offered to help with dishes, even if he did them all wrong. Ieiri Shoko brought a new dessert every time and left her lighter on your bookshelf without fail.

Haibara Yuu always complimented your cooking with such sincerity it made you blush, and Shoko’s girlfriend, Utahime Iori often stayed behind with you to help clean and vent about her day.

Gojo Satoru would lounge on your couch like he paid rent, socks mismatched and grin ever-present, always somehow finding the softest throw blanket before anyone else. He moved through your space like he belonged there, because he did. 

It wasn’t official, not yet. There was no key permanently on his ring, perhaps that’s just going to be the case for a long long time. Yet he does not care. And neither did you. His presence clung to the place like sunlight caught in the curtains. It was warm, familiar, impossible to ignore.

Sometimes he’d show up late, well past midnight, hair still damp from the shower, smelling like hotel soap and whatever cologne Suguru dared him to wear that week. He never made a big entrance. Just a soft knock, or sometimes no knock at all. It was just a quiet door click and the shuffle of his sneakers. 

He wouldn’t say much. Maybe just murmured his loving words to you before setting his bag down and collapsing onto the couch like gravity worked harder on him than anyone else. His head would find your lap within minutes. His breathing would slow the moment your fingers slipped through his hair.

“What are we watching?” he’d mumble, half-asleep.

“Something stupid.”

“Perfect.”

And that was it. That was the whole language between you some nights. And it meant to you more than anything in the world. This beautiful shared silence, the hum of the television, the weight of his trust resting quietly on your thighs. This was everything you had dreamed of for all those dark thirty years.

There was still a drawer in your bedroom that held unopened letters from Kento. There was still a part of you that carried the shape of another life. But Satoru never asked you to erase it. Instead, he brought light into the corners you didn’t know were dim.

He never rushed your healing, never tried to step into places that weren’t his. He just… waited. Patiently. Kindly. With that unwavering presence that made you feel safe without ever making you feel small.

Sometimes, in the hush of a Sunday morning, he’d make coffee before you even woke up, padding around barefoot with bedhead and the sleeves of his hoodie covering his hands. You’d find him standing by the window, sipping from your favorite mug like it was his, bathed in soft light, looking at peace.

He never said it, but you knew he liked being there. Not just visiting. You saw it in the way he knew where the sugar went, how he refolded the throw blankets without thinking, how he started bringing over books and leaving them by your bed.

Other times, he brought Sasaki–san with him. Announced only by the scent of pastries or expensive perfume. She’d breeze in with a tote bag full of skincare samples and gossip swiftly declaring to you words she said best. 

“You look tired. Lie down. I brought a cooling mask and judgment.”

“I’m fine, ma.” you’d always say, even as she was already applying something that tingles in a concerning but oddly pleasant way. “Really.”

“Lying makes you puffy.” she’d reply firmly. “Come and be a good daughter and let me help care for you!”

When she didn’t bring him, she came alone happily. This was usually after one of his longer shoots. As if she knew the exact moments you needed a little something soft and strange to anchor you again. 

She’d brew the fancy tea no one but her understood, talk about vintage cookware, offer unsolicited but accurate relationship advice, then leave like she hadn’t just recalibrated your entire emotional frequency.

There was one evening you found your boyfriend Satoru asleep in your bed, sprawled diagonally, stealing your side like a cat. His mother was in the kitchen, humming and slicing fruit with the precision of a surgeon.

“I go and change his position, ma.” you said, leaning in the doorway. “He’ll catch a cold.”

“Add a blanket, nothing more than that, sweetie.” she replied without looking up. “He only sleeps like that when he feels safe. Let him.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Because he did. He was safe. And somehow, so were you. You stood there for a moment longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand had flopped over to your pillow like he missed you in his sleep. 

His socks were still on. Still once more mismatched and rather dirty. One of his feet brutishly hung off the edge like he hadn’t quite figured out how to fit in a bed built for two. “He’s overworked again, isn’t he?”

“He snored loud a little earlier, so that’s true.” his mother added, casual as anything. “But only when he rolled onto his back. Suguru used to throw a pillow at him when they roomed together in their early days in the business. You could try that. Or just pinch his nose and pray.”

You snorted. “He’s lucky I love him.”

“He is lucky, sweetie.” she said, pausing to hand you a slice of apple, crisp and chilled. “But so are you. My son is a storm, but he doesn’t land where he doesn’t mean to.”

You took a bite. Sweet. Cold. 

Sharp at the edge, like the things she never said out loud.

“I know.” You whispered to her tenderly. “I’m very lucky.”

Later, when she’d gone and the house had gone quiet, you slid into bed next to him, gently nudging him to scoot over. He murmured something incoherent, squinting one eye open. He looks at you, drooling.

“Mmm… 's it tomorrow already?”

“Almost. You’re on my side, you know.”

“Your side is warmer.”

“Because I warm it.”

He grinned sleepily, latching onto you like a koala. “Exactly.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

You buried your fingers in his hair, resting your cheek against his. “Yeah. I really do.”

He looked at you softly. “You know, I used to think home was a place. But now I think maybe it’s just wherever you are.”

You didn’t answer right away. 

Just reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

Because what do you say to something like that?

You’d stopped believing in forever a long time ago. But maybe this wasn’t about forever. Maybe it was about now. This sliver of time where you were both here, both whole, both willing to try. So you let him stay a little longer than that wrapped in your arms. You let yourself believe a little more.

A little while later, he was out again in seconds, breathing slow and steady. And you lay there, listening to the rain tap softly at the windows, his warmth bleeding into you, your heart quieter than it had been in years. 

Both of you, safe. For once, completely and irrevocably safe.

PEOPLE HAD STARTED TO NOTICE EVERYTHING, WITH THEIR KEEN LITTLE EYES. Not just fans or critics, but colleagues, directors, interviewers who had worked with him for years.

Gojo Satoru had always been brilliant, undeniably talented, magnetic on screen. He was the kind of actor who could make silence feel like dialogue. But something had shifted in the air with him.

There was a new depth to his performances, a stillness beneath the chaos. Like he had nothing to prove anymore, just something honest to offer. A kind of clarity. Vulnerability. Everything had become more intense, more overwhelming, more real.

“He’s always been good to work with.” one director said in an interview. “But now he’s present. It’s like he finally stopped running like he’s running out of time. He’s started walking at a pace that he can feel leisurely about.”

“Oh definitely!” The actress he worked with smiled back at the director’s words. “Gojo–senpai really has become so much more of a human being, in a sense. It’s hard to explain. But there was just something about him these days.”

“Maybe he’s in love?” The interviewer posed to the cast and director, with a smile on her face.

“Or maybe he’s sleeping well.” Another actor snickered to the side.

“Maybe he’s earning more money!” The actress once again snides, earning laughter. “Bonus is upcoming, senpai! Be even more radiant!”

Besides that, people started to take notice of how he was no longer chasing project after project the way he used to. He still worked, still showed up, still delivered. But the rhythm was different now. Softer. More deliberate.

He took longer breaks between all the roles he’s been taking little by little, turned down parts he would’ve once jumped at with eagerness, and merely smiled unapologetically, bright eyed even, when asked about it in interviews.

“Life’s too short to never rest, you know?” he said once, shrugging. “And there are places I want to be. People I want to be with. Just gaining a new perspective in life lately.”

He was traveling more, and not alone. Sometimes fans would spot him in quiet corners of other cities. His hands tucked into his pockets, sunglasses low on his nose, walking next to you like the world wasn’t watching. 

You were laughing beside him, or reading on a train while he leaned on your shoulder, or slipping your hand into his without fanfare. You had no worries in the world as you stood together with him as his equal.

There were photos of you both by the coast in Italy, wrapped in shawls and laughter. Or in Kyoto, at a food stall, faces lit by lantern light. Or somewhere quiet and nondescript, where only the lucky few realized who they were seeing and chose not to interrupt. 

There were no worries about everything else either. Gojo Satoru held the media and the people with the palm of his hand. His fansites refuse to post anything about his private time, at his manipulative request accompanied by fan service. And his little text to Higurama Hiromi makes every headline go away.

No one knows and no one seems to care. That’s why you can say, your boyfriend just seemed lighter. Not in the way someone loses weight, but in the way someone puts something down. And everyone could see it, even if they don't know why. 

But you knew everything too well. You knew everything the world didn’t. And that’s what mattered. You were the beginning and end of his happiness. That’s why he wasn’t escaping anymore. He was arriving.

He stopped talking about needing to disappear into a role to feel alive. Stopped measuring his worth by the size of the screen or the buzz of the press. Instead, he started asking questions like, “Do you want to stay another day?” or “What if we took the long way back?”

He started calling his agent less. Started denying any guest appearances left and right. Started singing and goofing around more. Started sitting in silence with you like it was a conversation worth having. Everything was done with you by his side. 

Life lived like this had everything to do with stillness. With safety. With love that didn’t demand, but invited. It had everything to do with the nights he spent asleep with his head on your shoulder. 

With the mornings you brought him coffee before he asked. With the apartment full of his friends who had become yours. With your laughter echoing through every room he’d once thought he’d only pass through.

You became the reason he didn’t need to run anymore. And he didn’t say that out loud all the time. He didn’t need to. But he told you in the way he looked at you when you weren’t watching. In the pictures he took of you on film, quietly, reverently. In this way he always waited to fall asleep until you were beside him.

Gojo Satoru hadn’t changed for the world. He’d changed because, for the first time, he didn’t have to be larger than life to be loved. He just had to be here. He can just be himself in the world locked away like this with you.

The villa was still. Except for the echoes of your heavy breathing and the soft creak of the mattress beneath you. Days had blurred into nights, or maybe it was the other way around. You didn’t know anymore. You can’t think straight. 

You had no sense of time anymore, not with Satoru constantly between your legs, his hands all over you, his mouth pressed to your skin like he’d die if he stopped. And you let him. Hell, you craved it just as much.

You and Satoru in blissful isolation here in Switzerland. No paparazzi, no cameras, no media. It was just the two of you in a secluded villa where no one could see how utterly undone you had both become. 

What started as innocent stolen moments quickly turned into madness you could only crave because of him. You hadn’t left the bed for days. You didn’t want to. There was no need to do so And he was happy to oblige. Pamper you with your wants.

Your body ached, raw from his touch. You could feel his teeth, his tongue, his fingers all over you. They were all too rough and brutish, but you didn’t care. The sheets were soaked, clinging to your damp skin. 

Your thighs still trembled from the last time he was inside you, and yet, here you were again. On your back. On your stomach. Bent over. Under him. Over him. There was no end to it. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you, but your body kept begging for more.

"You’re crazy, baby." you gasped in nonsensical tones, your voice hoarse from the endless screams he’d pulled from you. Your nails dug into his back, his sweat-slicked skin hot and feverish beneath your touch.

Satoru just laughed, breathless, his bright blue eyes blown wide with something feral. His white hair stuck to his forehead, and his beautiful mouth was red and swollen from kissing you senseless everywhere and anywhere.

"And you're just as bad, aren’t you?" he rasped, his hand gripping your jaw to force your mouth open before his tongue slid inside. It was messy, all teeth and desperation, but it only made you dizzier.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pooling all the wetness of your bodies all around you. You kept pulling him deeper into you and you wanted more. You want him to overtake you. You needed it. You needed him. Your mind was gone, reduced to nothing but a hazy, animalistic desire to keep him inside you.

"Fuck, fuck. Baby, baby…..hoooooo…..hu—" you sobbed, arching against him as another orgasm barreled through you, unexpected and violent. 

Your rigid body seized around him, walls fluttering as you felt his cock throb. But he didn’t stop — he never stopped. Not when he had you all for himself to pamper and to love. Even when you came, he kept moving like a man possessed. It didn’t help that you kept encouraging him too.

"You’re not tired yet, are you?" Satoru's voice was wrecked, but his grin was sinful. His hands tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite down on your throat, leaving yet another mark. "You can take it, can’t you, baby? My good girl can keep up, right?"

"You’re insane……" you gasped, but your hips still lifted to meet his thrusts, helpless under his touch. "We’ve been in bed for days."

"And I’ll keep you here for more if you let me." His teeth grazed your jaw, his hand sliding down your stomach until his fingers found your already oversensitive clit. You jolted, legs clamping around him, but he just chuckled darkly. "You’re not tapping out, are you?"

Tears burned your eyes from pleasure, from overstimulation, from the sheer intensity of it all. "Satoru—"

"I know, baby." He kissed you, swallowing your cries as his thrusts turned bruising. "I know."

Your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red marks bleeding all over, and his answering groan shot straight to your core. His grip on your waist tightened, possessive and desperate, like he couldn’t get deep enough.

"We’re so fucked up, aren’t we?" you whimpered, head spinning. "We haven’t left this bed—fuck…fuckkkkkk. W–we haven’t eaten—"

"Don’t need food, baby." he bit out, his pace rough and frenzied. "Need you. Only you, mmm…."

And you lost it. Again. Your body locked up, mouth open in a silent scream as another orgasm wrecked you, and Satoru followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

But even after, he didn’t move away. He didn’t pull out. Instead, he collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy and grounding, and you felt his cock twitch again. Still hard and excited.

"You're fucking deranged, you bastard—what the fuck, you feel too good….." you whispered, your voice shaking. “You still feel so big, oh my god…..”

Satoru lifted his head, his grin dangerous and boyish all at once. "And you love it."

And you did. Because when his mouth dragged down your chest and his hands gripped your thighs again, you didn’t stop him. You spread your legs. You let him take you again. And again. And again. Until the sun rose and set and rose again and you still hadn’t left the bed.

Because he wasn’t done with you. And you weren’t done with him.

The air in the room was becoming more suffocating than ever before. It was highly toxic, thick with sweat, sex, and the sheer heat of your bodies colliding over and over again. You didn’t know how long it had been. Hours. Days. Time didn’t exist anymore. Not here. Not in this bed where Satoru refused to let you leave.

Your limbs felt boneless, pliant beneath him. Your voice was completely gone, too hoarse and too raw from screaming his name until you couldn’t anymore. Your throat burned, your entire body ached, and yet… you still wanted it.

Satoru hovered over you now, his face flushed, his white hair clinging to his forehead. His pupils were blown wide, eyes glazed with something primal. Something unhinged. He hadn’t let you go. Hadn’t let you leave this bed. Hadn’t stopped touching you. And you didn’t fight it, not once.

"You look ruined, baby." he rasped, his voice cracked from hours of panting and groaning your name. His thumb traced your swollen lips, still slick from his last kiss. "So pretty like this. All fucked out and begging me to keep going."

"I’m not—" your protest died the moment his hips snapped into you again, knocking the air from your lungs. Your back arched off the mattress, another shattered moan tearing from your throat. "Fuck, fuck…..Satoru, Satoru, what the fuckkkkkk……I can’t—"

"Yes, you can, baby." he cut you off, voice like gravel as he drove himself impossibly deeper. "You always can." 

His hand found your throat, not tight enough to cut off your air but firm enough to make your head spin. "You think I’m stopping now? After everything we’ve done?" His grip tightened slightly, his pace punishing. "After the way you’ve been screaming for me like a little slut?"

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t form words. All you could do was feel. And God, you felt everything. The thick drag of him inside you, the sting of his teeth on your skin, the burn of your overstimulated nerves. You’d come too many times to count. The sheets beneath you were completely ruined, your legs trembling with each thrust. But he wouldn’t stop.

Did you even want him to?

"S–satoru….please, I’m close, I’m close. Give me….fuck—" you begged, your voice cracking, unsure if you were begging him to stop or keep going.

"Please, what?" His grip on your throat tightened, his other hand gripping your thigh so hard you were sure it would bruise. "Please fuck you more? Please don’t stop? Please fill you up again?"

Your eyes rolled back. "Y–you bastard—"

"Yeah, baby." Satoru growled, teeth sinking into your shoulder. "That’s what I thought."

It was insane, he was insane. The way he wouldn’t let you out of his grasp, the way his body was still ravenous for yours despite having already taken you more times than you could count.  And he still wanted to take you more.

You felt his cum leaking out of you, sticky and hot. But it didn’t matter. Every time he finished inside you, he never let it go to waste. He’d push it back in with his fingers, murmuring, “Not done yet, baby. Can’t waste it.”

And here he was still hard, still fucking you like he was trying to break you. “Baby, you can do it. I know you can.”

"I can’t—I can’t…holy fuck….. babe—" you sobbed, tears pricking your eyes from the sheer overstimulation. Your body trembled, your legs kicking weakly, but he just growled and forced you to take it.

"Yes, you can. You did it already, didn’t you?" he snarled, his hand moving from your throat to your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His face was twisted in something dark, obsessive. Like he’d die if he didn’t keep you like this. "You’ve been taking it so well, baby. You think I’m letting you stop now?"

Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes, your mind barely tethered to reality as his thrusts turned brutal. "I’m gonna break you, like you break me." he promised darkly, his tongue dragging up your jaw. "You’re gonna leave here and never forget how I fucked you like this. Never."

You sobbed, but your body betrayed you. It was another violent orgasm ripping through you, and your walls clenched so hard around him that he cursed, his hips stuttering. "Fuck! that’s it, baby. You take it all, it belongs to you. Fuck, fuck…..take it, all. Take it!"

Your body arched again, screaming his name, and you felt his cum spill inside you for what had to be the fifth time that day. But Satoru still didn’t stop. Even as you trembled and gasped, trying to push at his chest, he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

"I’m not done." His voice was wrecked, but his cock was still hard inside you. "I said I’m not done, baby."

"Satoru…please. I’m full of you.”

"You will." His teeth bared in a dangerous grin. "You’re gonna stay here, in this bed, until you can’t fucking walk."

And you believed him. Because the hunger in his eyes wasn’t fading — it was getting worse.

The moment you tried to push at his chest again, his grip snapped.

"Don't fucking do that, baby." Satoru growled, his hand flying to your throat again, pinning you hard into the mattress.

His cerulean eyes were wild, almost rabid, pupils dilated so far there was barely any blue left. His chest heaved, his cock still buried deep inside you, still hard, despite just filling you moments ago. "Don’t fucking push me away."

"I can’t —" your voice cracked, absolutely wrecked, tears streaking your face as your body spasmed beneath him. "Satoru, I can’t — I can’t take anymore —"

"Yes, you can." His grip on your throat tightened, his teeth bared like an animal. "I’m not done with you. You’re not leaving this fucking bed until I say you can."

Your body jerked as he pulled his hips back and slammed into you again. It was too deep, too hard, too much. Your scream was choked, his grip blocking the sound, and your eyes rolled back as another orgasm shattered you. Your thighs clamped around his waist involuntarily, but he didn’t let up.

"Fuck, yes," Satoru groaned, his head dropping back, white hair sticking to his sweat-slicked skin. "That’s my fucking girl—keep squeezing me like that. Fucking take it. Take all of it."

"Satoru — I —"

"What?" His hand released your throat only to grab your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His hips were still punishing, rutting into you like he’d die if he stopped. "You wanna stop? Huh? Is that what you’re crying for?"

You couldn’t answer. Your mouth opened, but only broken sobs fell out as your body twitched beneath him. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. Your brain was scrambled from overstimulation, but your body still craved him. It was like a drug you couldn’t quit.

"Nah, baby." Satoru’s voice was dark, twisted, and unrecognizable. "You don’t get to fucking quit. Not when you keep coming around my cock like this — you like it. You fucking love it. Look at you."

Your eyes were blurred with tears, but you couldn’t look away. His face was pure madness. Everything about him was flushed. You could see his teeth gritted, brows furrowed as his eyes bored into yours with deranged obsession. Like he was watching you come apart and thriving off it.

"Satoru, the butler’s going to come soon! H–he said he’ll bring up supper! Y–you…fuck! You heard him on the phone earlier!” you choked out, voice cracking. "We….we have to stop—"

A laugh fell from Satoru’s lips, his grip on your jaw bruising. “Baby, don’t worry. Do you think they’ll care?" His thrusts got harder, splitting you open again and again, like he wanted to break you. "You think they’ll care about me making love to the love of my life?”

"Satoru—"

"Let him watch, if he wants.”

Your body froze. "W-what?"

"You heard me." His voice was eerily calm, but his grip on your jaw trembled with fury. "If he walks in here and sees you like this and sees you all fucked out and dripping with my cum , let him watch.”

“That’s….Satoru….You—” Terror shot down your spine, but it was overshadowed by the way his words only added to the arousal building in your gut again. "Y–you’re insane!"

"I know." Satoru grinned, manic and unhinged. "I fucking know. And I don’t care. Let him stare. That’s all they’ll ever get. But baby, I get to love you like this for the rest of our lives. I don’t care if they all stare.”

“Satoru, you’re being an….fucking…..idiot!” You croaked to him, your nails digging harder against his back. Arousal tightening against him. “You’re….fucking…..fuckkkkk.”

"I don’t care babe!" His hand flew to your thigh, spreading you wider, shoving himself deeper into you, making your back arch from the intrusion. "I don’t care what they do. You’re mine now. ‘m yours too. That’s all that matters. You get that, baby? 

"Satoru. Fuck you, you brat—”

"Say it, baby." His hand left your thigh and grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him again. "Fucking say it. Say you’re mine."

Your stomach twisted. Your mind was unraveling. "I’m yours….fucking yours."

"Louder." He bottoms down, slowing a little bit, to hear your words clearer.

"I’m yours.....Fucking yours, only yours.....Fuck, fuck, you’re getting deeper…..and….and fucking hell, you’re fucking mine. You fucking hear me? Fucking mine, you…you bastard!"

"I’m fucking yours, babe. Forever and ever. How’s that sound?” He starts once again, moving deeper and then picking up the pace. “Love it babe. Love it.”

"You….you better fucking do.” You groaned loudly, wrapping your legs higher, meeting his thrusts at the fastening speed.

“Of course, I do.”

You bit his neck, tighter and tighter. “G–good….you bastard. Fuck, more. More, Satoru. Deeper…..fucking deeper!”

His groan was visceral, chasing your command with all he could. Your lover had become more animalistic than before. His mouth devoured yours, tongue shoving in deep, teeth biting down hard on your bottom lip until you tasted blood. His thrusts turned inhumane and accursed, like he was trying to carve himself so deeply inside you that you’d never forget.

"That’s it, fuck. You’re perfect. You’re my everything." he panted against your lips. "That’s my fucking girl. Mine. Fucking mine…..I’ll kill anyone who touches you. I swear to fucking god, baby….I’ll kill for you. Anyone, anything. Just to have you with me."

And you believed him. Because the unhinged, murderous look in his bright blue eyes wasn’t pretend. You knew it was real. Gojo Satoru had officially snapped. Days locked in this villa with you, keeping you in bed, not letting you leave. It had broken something inside him. And now he couldn’t stop.

"Satoru….fuck, fuck, babe. I can’t anymore…..I’m gonna come!"

"Again." His hand slapped your thigh. "Come again. I wanna feel you fucking milk me dry, baby. Don’t stop—"

"I can’t, you’re too….fuckkkkkk, fuckkkk….You feel good.” You cried and cried, weeping as you held him tighter, feeling euphoria you had never thought before possible.

"Yes, you fucking can."

And you did. You came so hard you almost blacked out. Your vision blurred, your body convulsed, and your mouth opened in a silent scream. And the second you did, Gojo Satoru had his final stand off.

"You fucking feel so good. Fuck, fuck, baby." His hands bruised your waist, his cock jerking deep inside you as he spilled again. It was once more hot, thick ropes of cum that filled you to the brim. “Fuckkkkkkk!”

Your entire body arched, twitching as his thrusts stuttered, grinding deep as if he was trying to force his seed even deeper. "Shit, baby…..you’re so full of me….Fuck, baby, I can’t stop wanting to fill you good!"

And he didn’t. Even after he came, his cock didn’t go soft. He just kept thrusting, fucking his own cum back inside you, his mind completely broken. “Satoru, you’re—”

"I’m gonna put a baby in you, baby." Satoru panted wildly, his voice dripping with obsession. "You hear me? I’m gonna keep you here….I’m gonna fuck you until you’re full of me. I’m gonna put a fucking baby in you.”

"Satoru, baby…..I’m full of you, fuck!”

"Mine, mine, mine—"

And you couldn’t escape his tightening hold.

Because the terrifying part was a truth you didn’t say out loud.

You didn’t want to part from it all.

THE SHOWER WAS MUCH NEEDED TO BE SURE. And you were lucky to shower before the butler actually arrived. He hadn’t shown up just yet. And that was a relief to you.

You had hit Satoru for a while, because you were flustered coming to your senses, knowing a man could have seen your partner fucking you well. Satoru merely laughed.

You can only thank whatever higher power had mercy on your debauched souls. You both needed at least ten minutes to pretend you hadn’t been trying to devour each other since sunrise.

The air in the bathroom was thick with steam, clinging to your skin like a second, hotter layer. The mirrors were already fogged up, the scent of expensive soap and something headier. The sweat, breath, skin were all just hanging in the air. 

But neither of you noticed. Not really. Not with your chest heaving and your back against the cool tile, and Satoru’s mouth still tracing the shape of your jaw like he was mapping it for memory.

Your legs were trembling, practically useless, so he held you there with a firm grip around your hips, his broad frame still pressed to yours like he hadn’t decided to let you go yet.

“I was a little rough, wasn’t I?” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from the things he'd groaned into your ear an hour ago. He pressed a kiss just below your ear, then another to your collarbone. “Sorry, baby. Got carried away.”

You laughed, breathless, fingers sliding through his damp hair. “You say that like I didn’t scratch half the skin off your back.”

He chuckled, low and pleased. “You did. It was hot.”

“You were hot, ‘toru.” you corrected, tilting your head back as he kissed a new bruise blooming near your neck. “Still are.”

He hummed against your skin. “You bit me. Hard.”

“You liked it.”

“I love it very much.” he said with a grin that made you squeeze your eyes shut from the sheer intimacy of it. “I love everything you do to me.”

Your fingers ghosted over the angry red lines down his shoulders. “I should apologize too.”

“For what?” he whispered, thumb brushing under your chin to lift your face back to his. “Making me lose my mind? Making me say filthy things into your ear until you forgot your name? No, baby. Don’t apologize for that.”

You shivered at the memory, skin still tingling, still tender in places. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re irresistible, baby.” he replied, as if it were a fact of nature. Then softer, almost reverent, he added, “You should see yourself right now. Hair wet, skin flushed, legs still shaking. You ruin me.”

You swatted his chest, not with any real force. “We have at least ten minutes before the butler arrives, Satoru.”

“Plenty of time, baby.” he said without missing a beat, already reaching for the shampoo like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just wrecked you and then made it romantic.

You huffed, leaning your forehead against his chest, his warmth anchoring you to the moment. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m in love with you.” he whispered, fingers combing through your hair like you were something delicate and sacred. “That’s even worse.”

And just like that, the steam wasn’t the only thing making the room feel so impossibly full. So soft. So much. You let out a quiet laugh at his words, closing your weary eyes as the water poured over both of you. 

“Then help me not look like I just crawled out of your bed, and maybe the butler won’t quit.”

“No promises, baby.” he smirked. “But I’ll try.”

“Hm, so will I.”

“Give me five minutes, baby.” he breathes into your ear, voice thick with heat and mischief.

His lips ghost along your skin like he’s trying to brand you with just his breath. The warmth of his words, the low timbre of his tone. It’s almost worse than the hands that haven't left your body since you stepped out of the shower.

Your cheeks flush instantly, the color blooming high and hot, because you know exactly what five minutes means in Gojo Satoru’s language. And it’s never five. Ever. You know your lover way too well for that.

“Actually… just two minutes, at the very least.” he amends, already trailing kisses down your neck like a man possessed. “You don’t even need to do anything. Just… let me.”

“Satoru…” you gasp, voice catching as his fingers slide between your thighs again, slow and certain, right where you’re still sensitive. Still aching, still trembling from the last time you told him you couldn’t go again.

Your whole body jolts in response, hips twitching before you can stop yourself. You press your hand to his chest, not to push him away, but to ground yourself. Because you can’t. Not again. Your body is begging for a break, but your heart is already folding.

“Stop, baby…” you plead softly, breath hitching. “I can’t…”

But he’s already pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, his nose brushing your cheek as he whispers, almost reverent, “We’ll actually eat after, I promise.”

He’s grinning—smug and beautiful and completely unrepentant. “Just one more, baby.” he murmurs like a prayer. Like a devil luring you into a sin you both know you’ll never regret. “Please.”

And the worst part is that you always give in. 

You always believe him. Even when you shouldn’t.

And unfortunately, you become as playful as him.

You shudder, legs already weak, caught in that hazy middle place between resistance and surrender. And Satoru knows it. Feels it in the way your breath stutters, the way your fingers curl around his wrist instead of pushing him away.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your collarbone. “You always say you can’t. But you always let me make you feel good anyway.”

You turn your face into his neck, heart racing, teeth pressing into your lip to suppress the moan building too fast in your throat. “That’s because you don’t play fair.”

He huffs a soft, sinful laugh against your skin. “I never promised to.”

That’s why lately he seemed… happier. You indulge him, you keep him happy. You humor him. You accept him whole. You love him whole. And just as much you let him do all that for you too, you let him have devotion complete him and his life. You let him have happiness.

This is not the kind of happiness that makes headlines or gets captured in flashbulbs. Not the showy, curated kind. But something quieter. More grounded. More secure. The way his shoulders sat lower. The ease in his laugh. The glow that didn’t come from lighting or makeup, but from something, someone, steady beneath the surface.

He looked well-rested, too. For once. 

Like he’d finally given himself permission to breathe. 

And in his interviews, something had changed.

He spoke more deliberately now, less performative and more open. And when the conversation drifted toward love, because it always did, eventually, he no longer danced around it with jokes or vague metaphors.

Instead, he’d smile, tilt his head a little, and say things like: “Love is showing up, I think. Over and over. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s quiet.”

Or: “It’s not always fireworks. Sometimes it’s knowing someone remembers how you take your tea, or what song makes you cry. That kind of thing stays.”

And every time, every time, the world would erupt with speculation. The tabloids would buzz. Fans would dissect every word, every glance, every new piece of jewelry or change in wardrobe, wondering who it was.

Who had Satoru Gojo fallen in love with?

But you knew. You knew it in the way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention, like he was memorizing you. In the notes he left tucked into your books. In the quiet gratitude in his voice when he’d say: “Thanks for waiting up, baby.” or  “I missed this so much, baby.” like it was a confession.

You didn’t need the world to know. Not really. Because when he said “she grounds me with everything.” on a late-night talk show, or “I didn’t know I could be loved like this, you know?” in a magazine profile, you knew it all too well. 

He was talking about you.

You knew, every single time—it was you.

And there will only ever be you.

When he talked about the way love had softened him, made him better, you remembered the quiet evenings on your couch, your fingers carding through his hair while he let himself fall asleep without armor for once. You remembered the mornings he spent reading next to you in bed, his knee brushing yours under the covers, like even in sleep, he needed to know you were close.

So when he said in that glossy cover story: “It’s not the kind of love that makes you lose yourself. It’s the kind that hands you back to yourself, steadier.” 

It wasn’t just a beautiful quote. It was a memory. It was true. It was you, pressing a kiss to his temple when he told you he was afraid of not being enough anymore. It was you, reminding him that he could be tired, that he could be soft, that he could be held, and the world wouldn’t fall apart because of it.

When he looked directly into the camera during a premier night red carpet and laughed shyly after being asked if he was in love and then said: “Yeah. I think I’ve been for a while. I just didn’t know what to call it at first.”

God. You knew. You were the only one who saw him on the in-between days, when he wasn’t glowing under studio lights or basking in the glow of red carpets. You were the one who listened when he questioned himself, who stayed when he asked for space but didn’t really want to be alone.

He spoke of her, you, like a story he’d lived into. Not a fantasy, not an escape. A real thing. A grounding thing. And maybe he didn’t say your name. Maybe the world would never know exactly who he meant when he smiled a little too softly, when he looked down and mumbled something private in the middle of an interview, like the memory was too precious to speak aloud.

But you knew. You knew it in the way he always texted you afterward, even if it was just a heart emoji or a blurry photo of his dressing room mirror. You knew it in the voice messages at the end of the day—tired, warm: Hey, did you watch it? Was I weird? I thought about you when they asked that love question.

You were the thread in every word he spoke about gentleness, about coming home to someone who made him feel safe in a world that never quite let him rest. The world could guess all they wanted. Whisper, speculate, make charts and guesses and fandom theories.

But the truth was never in question. Because the way he looked at you when he walked through your door after a long trip, when his whole body exhaled just from seeing you standing there—it told you everything. It was always you.

YOU WERE SATISFIED WITH YOUR LIFE, TRULY. There was warmth in your days that you never thought you’d ever find for yourself. It was quiet, earned happiness. The home you’d built was full of laughter and good food and people who loved you deeply. 

Gojo Satoru’s hand always finds yours, even in sleep. Your children, growing into themselves with humor and kindness, called or visited often, always bringing noise and stories and that joyful kind of chaos that only family can.

You had friends. You had peace. You had enough. And yet. There was this ache. Soft, but persistent. Like a door inside you that had never fully closed. You knew what it was. You always had. You wanted to be a chemist.

You’d wanted it for so long that it had once felt like a part of your blood, your breath, your blueprint. You used to dream in formulas, used to feel your hands itch for glassware and lab notes. The thought of discovery used to thrill you. It was not for acclaim or prestige, but for the simple, sacred magic of understanding how the world worked, molecule by molecule.

But life has taken you on other roads. Beautiful ones, no doubt, but different. Detours that became destinations. You made choices, built a life. You found love, more than once. You became a mother. 

You learned how to hold a family together, how to cook three meals while writing deadlines pressed down on your back, how to be present, even when your dreams whispered from another room.

And now, in your late forties, that dream felt far away. Like something belonging to a younger version of yourself. A version who hadn’t known grief yet. Who hadn’t learned how to compromise. Who hadn’t yet fallen in love with other things. With books, people, seasons, the slow beauty of an ordinary afternoon.

But still, it pulled at you. You kept circling the idea. Clicking on courses. Watching lectures late at night. Making excuses not to apply. Then reopening the tab again in the morning. You told yourself it was too late. 

Your children didn’t agree.

“Why not?” Keiko asked you once, over coffee, her voice gentle but firm, like she was already anticipating your excuses. She stirred sugar into her cup absently, but her eyes never left yours. “You tell us we can be anything. Why not you, mom?”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something witty or self-deprecating, to laugh it off the way you always did. But nothing came out. Because Nanami Keiko had always been sharp, always seen through you, even when she was little. She didn’t ask questions unless she already knew the truth behind them.

Kenshin was sitting across from you, legs sprawled out like he still hadn’t outgrown the teenage habit of taking up too much space. But he looked up from his phone then and nodded without hesitation.

“Yeah, Mom.” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I’m sure Tokyo University will let you come back. You donate so much to everything there. Plus….You’re, like, crazy smart. You always will be. Plus, they’re probably waiting for someone like you to shake things up a little.”

You snorted into your tea, shaking your head. “I’d be twice the age of my classmates. Maybe more.”

“So?” Keiko shrugged. “You always say learning doesn’t expire.”

You laughed then. A reflex. An instinct. The kind of laugh that was meant to deflect, to soften the edges of the truth they were gently pushing toward you. But their words stayed with you, as your words with them. 

They lingered like a dare. Like a blessing. Like two mirrors held up to you from either side of the table, showing you what they saw: someone capable. Someone worth investing in. Someone who could. And it rattled you, in the best way. You realized you raised your kids too well.

For years you’d told them those words: dream big, work hard, don’t let anyone else define your path. 

You said it when they doubted themselves, when their grades dipped, when the world was loud and cruel and uncertain. You said it because you believed it with your whole heart. But you hadn’t applied it to yourself. Not in a long time.

Your beloved Keiko and Kenshin weren’t challenging you out of impatience or pressure. There was no timeline, no ultimatum, no “you should have done this years ago.” — not a single peep of judgment or malice. 

There was only love. 

There was only faith. 

There was only joy.

Only the gentle belief that you were still allowed to want things. And that belief, their belief cuts through all the noise in your head. You were sure that you felt it in your heart that other than leaving your horrible marriage, raising your kids was the other best thing you’ve ever done.

It made you wonder what it would feel like to walk back through the doors of that university, older, yes, but also fuller. To sit down with a blank notebook and a sharpened pencil and write your name on the first page. 

Not just as a mother, not as a partner, not as a caretaker or host or writer or planner but just as you. No prefixes. No titles. Just the version of yourself who still dreamed. The one they still believed in.

Gojo Satoru, too, had noticed. 

Of course he had, easily.

Your partner was just the best with that.

He noticed everything about you. Not just the way your eyes sparkled when you were laughing, or the way your breath hitched slightly when you were moved but the smaller, quieter tells. The ones even you didn’t always catch.

Like how your posture subtly straightened whenever a science documentary came on, how you instinctively leaned forward, completely absorbed, mouthing terms under your breath. Or how you paused mid-chop in the kitchen to rant about a show getting a chemical process wildly wrong, then blinked in surprise when he started grinning at you.

“You were listening?” you’d asked, half–sheepish. You shook your head. “Figures.

“Obviously. I’m that type of guy, baby.” he said. “You’re way more fun than the actors pretending they know what ‘stoichiometry’ is.”

So one night after a long day of promotion work, unannounced, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary evening—your boyfriend brought home a box. You looked at him confused, but he was just smiling from ear to ear.

Wrapped in paper with tiny molecules printed across it, like he’d gone out of his way to make it thoughtful, not just playful. Inside: a beginner’s chemistry set. Nothing fancy. Just enough glassware and compounds to spark something familiar.

You laughed when you opened it, touched but amused.  “Satoru, babe.” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I need a hobby?”

He shrugged, a little too casual. “Just seeing if the lab spark’s still there.” Then he smiled, that sideways, dimpled grin that always softened you. “Spoiler alert: it is.”

He said it like a certainty. Like he already knew what you were still trying to believe. 

Because the truth was, you weren’t unhappy. Your life was full. Deep. Rich with love and memory and purpose. But beneath it all was a piece of yourself you had tucked away for safekeeping, like a glass vial labeled Someday. A part of you that had never been extinguished, only shelved.

Quiet.

Patient.

Unforgotten.

You used to think you’d outgrown that dream. That it belonged to the younger, hungrier you—the one who used to pull all-nighters solving problems no one had assigned, the one who found poetry in equations.

But maybe… it wasn’t about outgrowing it. Maybe that dream had simply needed time. Maybe it had been waiting for you to become the person who could return to it without fear. Who no longer needed it to prove anything, but could pursue it purely for the joy of becoming.

Because now you know things your younger self didn’t: How to endure. How to love. How to begin again.

And maybe, just maybe, now was exactly when you were meant to start.

Yet you did not start just yet.

The doubt was too much of a sinner.

YOU THOUGHT ABOUT IT LONG AND HARD. And it was all over your head these few weeks. You were pretty sure your partner knew that too. How could he not, when he was the one that knew you this well? 

The air between you and Satoru was thick with the kind of silence that only followed moments of true intimacy. It wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet, but a content one. It was the kind that lingered after everything had been said in quiet gasps and tender touches. 

Your bodies had tangled together with ease, finding that familiar rhythm, that soft, perfect connection that existed between the two of you. The sheets, half-draped across your bodies, barely covered the curve of your waist, and Satoru’s arm was slung lazily across you, like he had no intention of ever moving again. 

It felt like a moment frozen in time—a pause before the world outside crept back in.

Through the gentle hum of the night, the rain outside tapped lightly against the windows, its rhythm matching the pulse of your heart, calm and steady. The sound of it brought a kind of peace to the room, as though the universe itself was holding its breath with you, waiting for something. Or maybe, it was just you who was waiting.

You turned your head, just enough to catch the faintest gleam of his silver lashes against his cheek. The peace on his face was so unmistakable, so deeply serene, that you almost didn’t want to disturb it. 

You wanted to stay there forever, just existing in this little bubble of warmth and stillness. But the thought was there, persistent, tugging at you like an unspoken word at the edge of your mind. It had been there for days, weeks even, and now, in this tender moment, it finally found its voice.

“I was thinking about school again, ’toru.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt almost like a confession. It was something soft and vulnerable, spilling out as if it had been quietly waiting for permission to be heard. “About… coming back to….maybe try it again.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and delicate all at once. You didn’t look at him right away, unsure of how he might respond. You weren’t sure you were even ready to hear it, but they were out now.

Satoru’s response was instant. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light of the room as they locked onto you with that spark in them that always made you feel like he saw the whole of you. He blinked, like he was still waking up from something deeper than sleep, and then his face shifted into an expression of pure warmth.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice husky with sleep, still filled with that post-intimacy softness that only made him sound more sincere. He propped himself up on his elbow, his fingers brushing across your skin absently, a touch that was both casual and intimate. “That’s amazing. You should go for it.”

There was that enthusiasm again, that effortless support you’d come to count on from him. It made your heart flutter, but it also made you feel like you were suddenly on the edge of something big. It was a precipice you weren’t sure you were ready to stand on.

You stared up at the ceiling, trying to find the right words. You wanted to believe in it, wanted to feel that same excitement he was projecting, but it felt distant, like a dream that wasn’t quite your own. 

“I don’t know…” The words slipped out, coated with uncertainty.

“No, really.” he continued, not missing a beat, his voice softening into something almost pleading now, like he couldn’t understand why you were second–guessing yourself. “You’ve been talking about this for so long. You light up whenever it comes up, babe. I think you should do it. What’s stopping you?”

He wasn’t wrong. Every time you spoke about it, about chemistry, about the passion you once felt….It was as if a light flickered in your eyes, the old flame rekindling in ways you hadn’t realized. He understood better than anyone. He loved chemistry too, as much as he loved you.

But hearing him say it so simply, so assuredly, made it feel like you were being asked to jump into something that you didn’t know how to approach. You flinched slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around your chest, a physical barrier that mirrored the one in your mind. 

“I just…” You paused, your heart starting to thump harder, louder in your chest. 

The vulnerability you hadn’t expected to feel in this moment surged, and you couldn’t shake the sense of fear creeping in. “I don’t know if I’m ready. It’s been so long. What if it’s too late? What if I can’t keep up, or I’ve forgotten everything? What if it’s a waste of time? A waste of—”

Before you could continue, Satoru’s hand found yours, his touch gentle, grounding. “Hey,  baby.” he murmured, his voice full of quiet understanding. “It wouldn’t be any of that. And you wouldn’t be doing it alone. You’d have all of us. It’s me, the kids, everyone. You’d be doing something for you, and that’s—”

His words, full of love and unwavering support, cut through the panic building inside you, but it wasn’t enough to calm the storm that was rising in your chest. You needed space. You needed time to think, not in the middle of this moment.

“I’m tired, babe.” you said, cutting him off with a sharpness that you immediately regretted. The words were out before you could catch them, but they were there, ringing in the air between you. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was palpable. Satoru’s hand stilled in yours, and for a moment, you both just lay there, the weight of your emotions settling between you like a gentle fog. 

He was quiet, not pushing you, not questioning your need for space, but still present. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… aware. He sighed, a soft sound that was more for himself than for you, and nodded slowly, pulling away just a fraction, giving you room to breathe.

“Okay, baby.” he said quietly, his voice full of the kind of understanding that only came from years of knowing someone deeply. “Tomorrow.”

You didn’t mean to push him away, but you needed this. You needed a moment where the dream was just that. It was a dream, not a pressure. One night where you didn’t have to make any decisions. Where you could just breathe and let things settle.

And Satoru, as always, understood. He didn’t pull away completely. Instead, he curled back around you, his body molding against yours, a comfort. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, a promise of patience, of waiting.

“Whenever you’re ready, baby.” he whispered into the quiet of the room, his words a balm, a gentle reassurance. “I’ll be here.”

And you knew that he meant it. In the way he said it. In the way he held you. He wasn’t rushing you. He was just there. The silence between you and Satoru lingered, but it was no longer filled with tension. 

Instead, it was a comfortable kind of quiet, one where the weight of the world seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in the warmth of your shared space.

The rain outside had softened into a gentle patter, a lullaby that seemed to carry away the restless energy from the conversation that had almost been too much too soon.

Satoru’s arm draped over you once more, his fingers grazing the curve of your waist in a gesture that was equal parts tender and possessive. It was his way of showing you, without words, that he was still here. Still present. 

His warmth seeped into your skin, and for a moment, you closed your eyes, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft rhythm that mirrored your own breath. You felt the cool touch of the night air against your skin.

But there was something about the quiet intimacy of the moment that made everything feel safe, like you could be anything, do anything, and still be loved. Even your doubts, the ones that had clouded your thoughts for weeks, seemed less urgent now. Not gone, but softened—held in the gentle care of his presence.

“I know you want it, baby.” Satoru said softly, breaking the silence, his voice low, almost a murmur. “And I know you can do it. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Don’t let fear keep you from something you’ve always wanted.”

You shifted slightly, turning to face him, finding his gaze already fixed on you, those familiar blue eyes filled with understanding and something more. A quiet conviction. A belief in you that went beyond your own self-doubt.

“I just… I don’t know if I have it in me anymore. I’m not the same person I was when I first dreamed of it.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, the vulnerability creeping in once more. “I’m not sure I’m still that person.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently against yours, a subtle, intimate gesture that made your heart flutter. His breath was warm against your skin as he spoke, his voice soft but steady. He takes a moment before speaking.

“You’re still you, the same person with the same fire. You don’t lose that. Not even if you take a break for a while. It’s still there, waiting for you to reach for it again. All you need to do is trust it.”

You let out a slow breath, the weight of his words sinking in. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to take that step, to push past the fears and doubts. But there was something so terrifying about the unknown, about putting yourself out there again after all this time. What if you weren’t good enough? What if it was too late?

But then Satoru shifted slightly, pulling you closer, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss so gentle it felt like a promise. "And no matter what, I'll be here. With you, every step of the way. You don't have to do it alone."

The sincerity in his voice was enough to calm the panic swirling inside you. He meant it. You knew he did. And maybe that was what you needed to hear. Maybe that was all you needed, the reassurance that no matter where this journey took you, you wouldn’t be walking it by yourself.

You closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then, ‘toru.” you whispered, the uncertainty still there, but tempered by something more—something that felt like courage, hidden under the layers of fear and doubt.

“Tomorrow.” Satoru echoed softly, his lips pressing to the crown of your head, holding you close, as if grounding you to this moment.

And in that moment, you knew that no matter how many times you doubted yourself, no matter how many times you felt like you weren’t enough or that it was too late, there would always be someone by your side. Someone who believed in you when you couldn’t believe in yourself.

And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe, too.

THE EVENING UNFOLDED LIKE A DREAM. It was the kind of night that felt like it was tailor-made for memories. It was your fourth year anniversary, and Gojo Satoru had whisked you away to a private, elegant restaurant he’d rented out for the two of you. 

The place was intimate, with soft candlelight flickering across the tables and the hum of classical music playing in the background. The meal was incredible, an array of dishes that felt like an orchestra of flavors. Each bite seemed to deepen the connection between the two of you, like a conversation without words.

You laughed, you talked about everything and nothing. There were moments where Satoru would look at you with that mischievous smile of his, and you would feel your heart flutter as if the world hadn’t shifted, as if time hadn’t passed. You were still the same. He was still the same. And the love between you. Well, that had only deepened.

As the night wound down, the sky outside had darkened into a rich navy, the moon casting a soft glow across the horizon. You were both standing, preparing to leave, when Gojo Satoru stopped you with a soft word.

“I have a surprise for you, baby.” he said, his voice carrying the familiar warmth, but there was something else in it. Something a little more serious, a little more solemn. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, held a quiet intent. “Come with me.”

You followed him out into the cool evening air, the glow of the restaurant fading as you walked toward a sleek black car that was parked nearby. He opened the door for you, helping you in with a grin that made you wonder what kind of surprise he had in store.

The drive was short, but there was a palpable sense of anticipation hanging in the air. You couldn’t help but feel like something big was about to happen, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. 

It wasn’t like Satoru to keep secrets. At least, not ones that didn’t involve teasing you in playful ways. But this felt different. Finally, the car came to a stop, and Satoru turned to you with a knowing look, a hint of something serious flickering in his eyes. 

“Wait here, okay?” he said, before stepping out and disappearing into the dark.

Moments later, he returned with something in tow. Two large suitcases, their zippers securely fastened, the weight of them making his stride a little slower than usual. He set them down in front of you, his expression soft but unreadable.

“What’s this?” you asked, your curiosity piqued.

Satoru knelt down beside the suitcases, unzipping them one at a time. When the first one opened, you could hardly believe your eyes. Piles of cash, stacked neatly in bundles, filled the case to the brim. Your breath caught in your throat.

“What is all this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you were seeing things correctly. “Satoru….Oh my god.”

He reached into the suitcase, pulling out a thick stack of bills, his fingers brushing the edges of them as though they were delicate things. He smiles at you, with so much pride. That pride that could only be as pure as the driven snow.

“This is what you think it is.” he said to you tenderly. “This is the money you gave up for me. To help me escape. To get me away from my mother. The money you sacrificed when you helped me study, when you gave me a chance at a life outside of the abuse and everything that held me back.”

He paused, looking up at you, his face hardening slightly, as if the weight of it was just now hitting him. “This is the money you gave up for me to leave everything behind. And tonight, I’m giving it back to you.”

Your heart raced, confusion swirling in your mind. “Satoru, I—”

“There’s more, baby.” he interrupted, and you could see the emotion in his eyes, raw and unguarded. 

Your eyes widened. “Satoru, what do you mean?”

“This….”—he tapped the bundles of cash—“has twenty years of interest on it. You’ve been waiting for me to give this back, and tonight, I’m doing it. You deserve it. You deserve to have it back, all of it.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and the moment seemed to stretch out, frozen in time. Your mind struggled to comprehend it. It was twenty years of interest. The money. The sacrifice. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker as everything clicked into place.

“I know you hate that you have to still depend on what Nanami gives you.” Your partner smiles at you. “You had to give your own savings to me to save my and my mom’s lives. I just….I wanna give your life back to you, babe.”

“You don’t have to do this.” you said, your voice trembling slightly. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the edge of the suitcase, but you didn’t dare touch the cash. Not yet. “Satoru, this is too much. I can’t….I can’t accept this!”

Satoru looked at you with such intensity, his face softer than you had ever seen it. “I want to do this. You never asked for it, but you deserved it, from the moment I left that house to start over. This is me giving you what you should have gotten all along. Every penny of it. And more, if I could give it.”

There was so much unsaid in those words. It was so much more than just the money, just the years that had passed. You were just overwhelmed by it all. You were overwhelmed by his kindness, his tenderness, his love.

It was his way of saying thank you, of showing you just how deeply he understood what you had sacrificed, even when you hadn’t said a word. It was a way for him to show you that he had never forgotten. That he could never forget what you did for him.

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them back, not out of pride, but because you couldn’t let the weight of this moment overwhelm you. You had always been the one who gave, who put others first. But Gojo Satoru… Satoru had always known how to turn that around, how to see you. Really see you.

“You don’t need to repay me for any of that, babe.” you said softly, but the words felt hollow in the face of his gesture. 

You could feel the magnitude of his love and respect in every inch of this moment. He was doing this not out of obligation, but out of gratitude, out of a desire to give you something back that was long overdue.

“I know, I know,” he said, his voice low, sincere. “But I want to. I need to. So you’ll know that you’re always worth it. That you were never a second thought. That you have always been everything.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, taking in what he had done for you. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about love. The recognition of everything you had given up, everything you had done. Satoru had seen it all, and now, he was giving it back to you, with interest.

And in that moment, you knew that no matter where life took you, you had everything you needed. You had love, you had respect, and most of all, you had someone who would always make sure you never had to sacrifice for anyone but yourself again.

Satoru’s gaze softened as he saw the doubt flicker across your face. He reached out and gently took your hand, his touch grounding you as you stood there, frozen in the moment, surrounded by the weight of his gesture.

"I know you don’t want my money." he said quietly, his voice steady, but his eyes filled with something much deeper. Something like tenderness. "But this isn’t just money I’m giving you. This is your money. The money you sacrificed all those years ago to help me start a new life, to help me escape the life I was living. It’s time it came back to you. You’ve earned it."

The simplicity of his words hit you harder than you expected. It wasn’t just the physical money. It was everything. All the years of pain, the sacrifice, the love, and the dreams that had been deferred. 

And now, Gojo Satoru was giving it back to you, asking you to take what was rightfully yours, to use it for something you had always wanted but never fully allowed yourself to reach for. You were finally going to be free.

He placed the money in your hands, but it felt like he was offering you something far more precious. “I want you to use this to go back and study chemistry. I want you to finally fulfill that dream, the one that’s been waiting for you. I want you to be whole.”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The tears welled up quickly, spilling over your lashes before you could even blink them away. Your chest tightened as everything you had held back for so long. The guilt, the doubt, the fear, it all came rushing to the surface. You felt like you were drowning, but in the best way.

You could barely find the words as you turned to him, pressing your face into his chest, the sobs shaking through your body. Gojo Satoru held you close, his hands running soothingly over your back, offering his strength and his presence.

“I don’t know how to thank you, babe.” you whispered through your tears, your voice muffled against his skin. “I never… I never thought you would—"

“You don’t have to thank me, you know.” he murmured, his lips pressing gently to the top of your head, a quiet promise in his voice. “You deserve this. You deserve everything, and I want to see you happy. I want to see you live the life you’ve always wanted, with no more excuses. I want to see you go after your dreams and never look back.”

You held him tighter, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. “I don’t know if I would’ve ever had the courage to do this on my own. To really go after it. But with you… I feel like I can. I feel like it’s possible.”

Satoru’s arms wrapped around you even more securely, holding you as though he could protect you from all your fears, all your insecurities. “You’ve always had the courage, baby. You just needed someone to remind you. And I’ll always be here to remind you. No matter what.”

You let the tears fall freely now, no longer holding back the flood of emotion. You cried for the years lost, for the dreams that had been on hold, for the life you thought was slipping away. You let yourself feel it all, those tears.

But you knew that you also cried for the hope that had bloomed in your chest, the knowledge that it wasn’t too late. You weren’t too late. And for the first time in a long while, you could see the future in front of you, clear and bright.

When you pulled back, your face was still wet with tears, but the weight in your chest had lifted. You looked up at Gojo Satoru, seeing him with fresh eyes. His love, his patience, his belief in you, in your dreams.

“Thank you, Satoru.” you said again, your voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough. It was all you could say. “Truly.”

Satoru smiled softly, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to thank me, just… go live your life. Go do what makes you feel whole. And I’ll be here, cheering you on every step of the way, okay? I am your biggest cheerleader.”

You nodded, a quiet promise to yourself forming in the depths of your heart. You had spent so many years unsure of who you were, of what you could be. But now, with Satoru by your side, you could see the path ahead of you—a path that was yours to walk. And this time, you weren’t alone.

“I will, ‘toru.” you said, your voice firm and full of conviction. “I will. For me. For us.”

Satoru leaned down, his lips pressing against your forehead in a gentle kiss. “I know you will, baby.” he whispered. “I know.”

And in that moment, everything felt possible. Everything felt like it was falling into place. Because now, for the first time in years, you believed that your dream, your life. Now all of it was finally within reach.

AFTER FOUR YEARS TOGETHER, IT WAS TIME. The news broke quietly, but with an undeniable weight. [last name] [name] and Gojo Satoru, after all the years of shared moments, the lingering chemistry, the journey together had finally decided to announce what had been obvious to those closest to you: you were dating.

The announcement came naturally, a soft exchange between you and Satoru during a rare public moment when your worlds collided. It was simple, understated. No grand declarations, no elaborate explanations, it was just the truth of the matter.

You weren’t the type to thrive on headlines or public speculation, and neither was Satoru. So, when reporters asked about your relationship, you both simply said you were happy, together, and content with where life had taken you. 

Neither of you felt the need to elaborate. The questions surrounding your estranged marriage were left unaddressed, neither mentioned nor speculated on. What mattered now was you and Satoru, in this present, in this space.

For a while, there was silence. The kind of silence that comes from people waiting for the next chapter to unfold. And then, it came. People started to ask everywhere and anywhere — ‘what does Nanami Kento think of this?’

In his latest interview, your estranged husband was suddenly asked about the news of your relationship with Gojo Satoru. He was calm, composed as always, his usual air of professionalism in place as he responded. 

The interviewer probed gently, curious if there was any bitterness or unresolved tension. If there was anything to say about the dissolution of your marriage. But Kento, your estranged husband, simply smiled, his eyes betraying nothing but a quiet understanding.

“I’m happy for them, really I am.” he said, his voice steady, measured. “I’m happy for her. She deserves to be happy. And I’m glad that she’s found someone who makes her feel that way. I’m not here to comment on the past, but I do wish them both well. I hope they continue to find joy in each other’s company.”

There was a pause, and then the interviewer asked what anyone would have expected. “Do you think your paths will cross again?”

Kento leaned back slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I mean, we have children together. That’s bound to happen. But I’m too busy. And she has her own life. We’ll see. I’m content with where we all are. Just as she was.”

And just like that, the interview continued, the subject moving on to other topics, but the words hung in the air. It was a quiet, respectful nod to the past, to what had been and what could still be. 

The interview had been going smoothly until the interviewer, perhaps trying to pry for more details in order to farm for more views and dirt, asked the question that lingered in the room like an unwanted shadow.

“But you’re still technically married, aren’t you?” the interviewer pressed, a hint of skepticism in their voice as they glanced between Nanami Kento and the camera.

For a moment, Kento was silent, his jaw tightening just slightly as he processed the question. It wasn’t the first time he had been asked about your estranged marriage, but it always felt like an invasion of privacy, a reminder of a chapter he wished he could undo. 

Still, he had made peace with the past, and it was time the world did too. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes focused, and when he spoke, it was with a calm, steady voice. One that carried a weight of truth he hadn’t realized he needed to share.

“That’s none of people’s business.” Kento said, his gaze unwavering. “We’re married on paper, but we’re not together anymore, and she reverted to using her maiden name long ago.” His voice remained even, but there was an honesty there that couldn’t be ignored. “She’s her own person now. Leave her alone.”

The interviewer was momentarily taken aback, probably expecting more resistance, more nuance. But Nanami Kento didn’t hesitate, his words cutting through the tension like a quiet confession.

“I just realized it very late, her worth. I did a lot of wrong.” He continued, a quiet regret in his voice now. “I was the one who hurt her. I was the one who betrayed her. I cheated on her. And I—" 

“Mr. Nanami, I didn’t mean—”

“But you did. You mean to get shit out of me, of me being horrible to her. I don’t want to do that.” He stopped for a moment, collecting himself, as if the weight of his own admission settled deeper than it had in years. “It’s time to move forward. I have to live with that thought. It’s time you all do the same.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Nanami paused, letting his words sink in. There was no need to embellish the story or offer excuses. The truth was laid bare for anyone willing to listen.

His gaze softened, but there was no self-pity in his caramel eyes. It was only the understanding that the past could never be rewritten, but it didn’t have to define the future.

“I’m happy for her. That’s that.” Kento added, a subtle shift in his posture as he leaned back, his voice gaining strength. “I’m happy that she’s free from the marriage I helped destroy. She deserves to be happy, and I hope she is.”

The silence that followed was respectful, heavy with the weight of years gone by, but there was peace in the air. Nanami Kento wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t making excuses for what had happened. He didn’t deserve to have either. 

He had simply come to terms with the reality that you, too, had the right to move on and rebuild your life, without him. And that was okay. That’s just how it was. It was better that way. People should learn to know that too.

The interviewer nodded, clearly sensing the sincerity in his words, and the conversation shifted again, but the echo of Kento’s admission lingered, a quiet acknowledgment that even the most painful truths had their place in the light.

And for you, as you watched the interview unfold, there was a sense of finality to it. Nanami Kento had spoken of the past not with bitterness or anger, but with the quiet understanding that you were no longer defined by your history with him. You had been freed from that chapter, not just by time, but by your own strength and by the love you had found with Satoru.

Kento’s words didn’t undo the hurt or the betrayal, but they gave you the clarity that you had long deserved. It was the validation for the life you had fought to rebuild, and a recognition that, no matter what, you had always been your own person.

In the days that followed, the news spiraled, finding its way into conversations, headlines, and even gossip–filled whispers that had a way of slipping under doors and through cracks.

Some saw the romantic union between you and Satoru as a surprise, others as inevitable, but there was one thing they couldn’t deny. You weren’t the same person you had been before.

For years, you had been trapped in the shadows of your past, tethered to a marriage that had once held so much promise but had slowly become a cage. The divorce with Nanami Kento had always been painted as a sad, complicated chapter of your life, a chapter that people refused to let go of. 

But now? Now, you were free from those labels, those assumptions that others tried to write for you.

You sat across from Satoru in your favorite café, the sunlight spilling through the windows and illuminating the space with a soft warmth. The buzz of casual conversation around you felt distant, almost irrelevant. 

You could only focus on the present that you live happily now. The present that was now your reality. The present was full of laughter, soft touches, and a love that seemed as though it had always been meant to find you. 

Gojo Satoru reached across the table, his fingers brushing over yours, a silent reassurance that you were in this together. The world could be spinning with its opinions, but at that moment, all that mattered was the connection you shared.

“You know, baby.” Satoru began, leaning in slightly with a mischievous grin. “They’re still talking about us, right?” His voice was playful, but his eyes were warm, filled with something deeper than just the humor in his tone.

You laughed softly, feeling the lightness of the moment. “I know. They’re obsessed. But honestly, babe, I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? You don’t care that they’re questioning everything? You don’t care that they’re digging into every detail?”

“No, of course not.” you said, shaking your head with a smile that held more peace than you had ever known. “Because I’m not part of their narrative anymore. I’m living my own story now.”

Satoru’s grin softened, and he squeezed your hand gently. “I like that. I like the sound of that. Your story. Not anyone else’s. I really really love that.”

“I spent too long living for everyone else, you know?” you admitted, your voice quiet but firm, as if you were finally speaking the truth you had buried for too long. “I let the past define me. I let what other people thought about my life dictate my choices.”

“You’ve always had a mind of your own, baby.” he said, his tone softening as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving you. “But I get it. You had to find your way out. And now you have. You’ve freed yourself. And here you are now.”

You nodded slowly, your chest filling with a sense of something new, something freeing. “I didn’t even realize it until now. But for the first time in years, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. I’m not defined by what’s happened. I’m defined by what I choose from here on out.”

Satoru’s hand still held yours, a steady anchor in the storm of your thoughts. “And you choose this, right? You choose me?”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, and you squeezed his hand in return. “I choose us. I choose what we’re building. I choose this love.”

The warmth in his smile matched the affection in his eyes. “And I choose you, always.” he said, his voice rich with sincerity. “Every part of you. Every piece of this life we’re building together.”

You leaned across the table, your forehead resting gently against his. The world around you continued to buzz, the voices of others rising and falling, but none of it mattered anymore.

Because what you shared with Gojo Satoru was not a story written by anyone else. It was your own. It was one that you had crafted, nurtured, and chosen to live with all your heart.

And as the days passed, the whispers only grew louder, but you were no longer disturbed by them. They faded into the background, overshadowed by the certainty you carried in your soul. You had found your way, and nothing could take that from you.

Even Kento, who had once been a constant figure in your life, seemed a distant thought. His words of acceptance from the interview lingered in your mind, but they no longer held the same weight they once had. He had let go, and so had you. 

You were free from that chapter, free from the expectations of others, free to finally be who you had always been beneath the layers of doubt and obligation. You were your own person now. You belonged to yourself.

You were no longer just someone’s wife, no longer defined by the failures of a past relationship. You were the author of your own narrative. And that narrative, at long last, was one of love, hope, and possibility.

It was a story that had only just begun.

epilogue

The bustling streets of Tokyo had never felt so alive, and yet, there was a calm that settled in your chest as you walked toward the familiar gates of Tokyo University. The campus loomed ahead, its towering buildings standing tall like silent witnesses to the passage of time. 

You had walked through these gates once before, years ago, with ambition and dreams shining brightly in your eyes. But then life, as it often does, has steered you in another direction. You were planning to enjoy it all now.

Now, as you stood at the edge of the campus once again, those dreams didn’t feel like distant memories. They felt alive, pulsing in your veins, stronger than ever. You had come back for them.

You crossed the threshold, your shoes clicking softly against the stone pathway. Every step felt like a reclaiming, a return to something you had nearly let slip away. The scent of the old buildings mixed with the faint smell of fresh ink and textbooks. It was a scent you had missed.

Entering the main building, you made your way to the student affairs office. The door opened with a soft creak, and the low hum of activity inside made the space feel welcoming, alive with the energy of students coming and going, of new beginnings being made.

You approached the counter, your heart steady despite the nerves that had once kept you from even considering this moment. You hadn’t been sure, back then, if you were meant to walk this path. But now, with each passing second, that uncertainty was fading away.

A friendly receptionist looked up from her computer screen, her smile warm and inviting. “Good morning! How can I help you today?”

You cleared your throat softly, meeting her eyes with a sense of quiet confidence. “Hi, I’d like to inquire about getting a student ID, if you please.”

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued by your request. “Of course. May I have your name, mam?”

You took a deep breath and smiled, the weight of the decision finally sinking in. “My name is [last name] [name], and I’m a chemistry major.”

The receptionist’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she glanced back at you, a hint of surprise in her eyes. You can tell she was probably looking at your records. She happily nodded and smiled warmly.

“Well, it’s an honor to welcome you back, as a UTokyo student again.” she said, her voice laced with sincerity. “Let’s get you set up, okay? You’re starting a new chapter, so we should finish quick here. I’m sure there’s stuff you wanna explore on the campus.”

As she processed the necessary paperwork, you stood there, a quiet sense of fulfillment washing over you. The past years had been filled with challenges, with moments of doubt and struggle, but now, standing here, you realize how far you have come. You had chosen this path, and you were walking it on your own terms.

This was just the beginning, you knew that much. This beginning was just a part of the exciting, unknown journey you’re taking. This beginning was something you had dreamed of for so long. And it was happening. You could feel the future unfolding before you, and it was brighter than you had ever imagined.

When the receptionist handed you the new student ID, she smiled.  “Welcome back to Tokyo University!”

“Thank you….Thank you so much.”

Your shining eyes gazed at the lady and you smiled at her. Then back at your ID. It felt surreal. It was like a symbol of everything you had fought for. You saw it all in full.

Your name, your identity, your choice. The chemistry major you had once dreamed of was now a reality, waiting to be filled with knowledge, experiences, and possibilities.

And as you stepped out of the office, holding your ID in your hand, you couldn’t help but smile. You were no longer defined by what you had left behind. You were writing your own story, one step at a time.

The world, once again, was full of endless possibilities.